To Alf Wesson. Greece January 1978. We hoped to walk through the fields of flowers to find the ancient cities but it rained, and the countryside was flooded Water gushed down valleys collected in holes around dark winter pruned vines Rushed in yellow rivers down broken surfaced city streets Grey skies hugged the landscape, hiding the mountains and the rain, poured without stopping relentlessly The ruins of the past were grey like the landscape Concrete grey, shrouded All was greyness and ruins Greece where was your beauty Were you dead No, I was dead, mourning my father Weeping with the winter rain silently |