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