greece

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