The Smoke of Evening Fires
Lord, how many times have I climbed this hill?
Firewood is heavier these days,
the road stonier, steeper. How can that be?
I’ll rest here a while,
watch the low sun trail shadows
over the rich bottom lands,
the church beyond the bridge, hear shouts and laughter,
the angelus echo and re-echo, dogs bark.
It should be a better harvest for us all this year,
spring came early, the blossom
thick and white as dancers’ petticoats.
I have a pebble in my shoe.
How many times must I climb this hill?
Smells of supper- bread and goat stew.
I should have had good bottom land by the river
not this stony hillside where nothing fat will grow.
I should have had good bottom land,
rich black earth, groves of olive trees,
vines, lemons, a flock billowing like a cloud on the hillside.
I might have been rich,
drank each night in the taverna,
laughed, sang to the bouzouki,
wept for the troubles of lovers,
given candles to the church.
I might finish the wall this year,
get a young back to help.
This is no work for an old man.
Two sons dead in the war,
a third gone away somewhere, hah,
do I have a grandchild? who knows?
who would have such sons?
Time we caught the stallion in the salt marshes,
his mane and tail, us too, draggled with mud,
his hooves flailed and punched the air
nostrils flared, teeth bared,
the shrill cries of him, screamed like a woman,
my sons tight on the ropes,
how we laughed, hah, such sons.
The stew smells good, rich,
thick with meat and herbs, oregano, black olives
the sweet breath of new bread.
I am weary and this hill is stony and steep.
It is my daughter who waits for the firewood now
sets bread on my table
simmers stew over the heart of her fire
brims the jug with retsina but my bed is empty,
my blankets cold and when my legs ache in the night
only the moon shares my pillow.
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