Salt Pan at Larnaca,
Under the brooding loom of the Troodos
I cant my head to catch the brow of Zeus.
Engines whine.
In the verandah's shade I wait my departure call,
watch the parched skin of the drum of an August sun.
In the crux of trodden paths, dark bared ribs show,
where lumpen shapes scrape the sea's scabbed crop.
Morose and weary, a train of donkeys plod,
across the white plain of salt, slowly out,
swiftly back to shade and wait;
beyond the pan the city and the shining sea
My carafe of red wine gathers light,
streaks cusps and winged patterns
of altered sunlight over the white cloth;
bleed and dye; droplet, flame and nebulae.
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