Part 57

I picked my way through the extraordinary: a
submerged caldera (the volcano still hot, still
alive, deep within), a white ship squeezing

through the throat of the isthmus (bemused
waters forced to join hands), monasteries
perched high on rock-pillars (getting close,

as close as they can), an open-air cinema (the
screen, incongruous, between a low-hanging
moon and the yellow-lit acropolis). But then,

many afternoons later, what I remember is
the song of invisible cicadas on the trail up
to the Parthenon, the pink glow of sunsets

painting lesser hilltops, the silence of Sounion,
even the sea only a whisper, and all those
pillars standing in the ruins like broken arms

reaching for the blue stillness. Because memory
resides in the ordinary. Little things. That were.
Little things. That weren’t. What I never saw.

What wasn’t there. What was supposed to
be there. Absence is recollected as a solid
object. With contours and texture. With skin.

A vacant temple. A leafless tree. An echo in
an empty amphitheatre. A story with parts
missing. Running in an infinite loop. Running

out of time. A family without people. Photos
face down in a frame. Eternity. A daughter’s
palm long held open to an unresponsive sky.

(Athens /The Peloponnese/ Meteora, Greece)