I am not really into long poems Arthur but this one takes me on a journey 
and I actually feel I am there with the narrator. It is wriiten with care 
and with great sensitivity and has much to offer the reader,bwsally j


>From: Arthur Seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New Sub: The Rock
>Date: Wed, 4 Apr 2007 15:37:45 +0100
>
>                                             The Rock
>            Under the Cretan sun mirages dance
>
>            over the glittering road. A path forks off
>
>            to dip through a gloomy underpass,
>
>            from where it trails through back ways
>
>            towards Stavromenos of the white church
>
>            and dusty supermarket.
>
>
>
>                        Beyond the reach of bees,
>
>                        a wilt of dying flowers
>
>                         - hum of passing traffic.
>
>
>
>            I step from cool shade
>
>            into hammering sun
>
>            to stand upon an anvil of old roads,
>
>            stopped by heaps of debris.
>
>            Away from the main road silence is intense,
>
>            air hot and thick with soil's vapours.
>
>
>
>                        A white church looms
>
>                        through a stand of tall pines-
>
>                        ants debate bone or seed.
>
>
>            I scramble over heaped rubble,
>
>            scooped from the earth
>
>            to leave a drain that guides winter storms
>
>            and spring's swift melt seawards.
>
>            Sun pins me in the dust.
>
>            I am an ember.
>
>            .
>
>                        The road bends,
>
>                        then stops at the edge of the drain;
>
>                        a litter of rocks.
>
>
>
>            I teeter a path where there is no path.
>
>            White dust coats all; leg, arm and thistle leaf;
>
>            flicker of a passing swallow.
>
>            An old woman, black as a beetle,
>
>            turns at the corner of her house,
>
>            scuttles into the fluttering cool of lemon trees and vines.
>
>
>
>                        Cicadas stir,
>
>                        call cave on my shadow
>
>                        from the dry grasses of the verge.
>
>
>
>            A tethered goat, one horn shattered ragged,
>
>            dances on small feet, bleats,
>
>            butts at my intrusion into the lull of his day.
>
>            This is not the time to be out.
>
>Locals sprawl and sweat in sleep
>
>or potter in lemon groves, closeted in shade.
>
>
>
>            I am a mad dog,
>
>            loitering to savour the stink of old goat,
>
>            under a noonday sun.
>
>
>One rock in all that rock
>
>shows a thin line of fracture.
>
>It is no bigger than my head
>
>round as a fruit.
>
>Its rough skin pocked
>
>by its descent down the centuries.
>
>
>
>                        The goat's bell chimes flat
>
>                        as he shakes his beard.
>
>            A fly tells beads of my sweat.
>
>
>
>I part the rock as I would a cut melon.
>
>            First light floods
>
>            to illumine dazzling striations,
>
>            set there by ancient silts,
>
>            laid down by run of lost rivers
>
>            and sift of forgotten seas.
>
>
>
>                        I view a new world of gold and purple lands,
>
>                        whorls of ochre and lilac,
>
>                        painted deserts and sweeping umber prairies.
>
>
>            The afternoon is still and hot,
>
>            empty and silent as the ruined house
>
>            with curled paint and cracked panes.
>
>            Pale in the day sky
>
>            the moon sets into the sea -
>
>            a curtain falls back.

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