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The events of this poem took place in 1980 but werent written down till 1993. It is a classic description of paranoid schizophrenia. I hope I did the experience justice. Skiathos is an island off the northeast of Greece. Where the Greek advance guard waited for the approach of Xerxes' Persians. Further off the coast is Skorpios where Rupert Brooke is buried. It is very beautiful. Skiathos The Maiden of the Silver Bow crosses the quadrangle, Headed for her pentagrams and whisky. The Greek gentleman with his black shiny shotgun And his white red-eared dogs examines me As I cruise past on my motor-scooter On the way to my favourite Skiathos beach. The island is thick greenery, close-packed trees, I climb the steep slopes to train my thighs for the swim. In early evening as the sun goes down behind the mainland I look at the waters below the orange globe. At night the voices come, they say I will be raped, They say I will be killed, they dare me to sleep. I sit in the bars and drink, terrified, a spell Has been cast on me, I talk with my hands. I lie on the sand with my arms spread reciting my poems, My face buried in a towel. I am a hunted animal. The voices come out in the night-time. They say they will rape me. I haven't yet entered the water since I arrived. My swimming a secret. I leave my clothes and my Omega Constellation watch on the beach. And swim. Out into the rich water. My thighs crackle. I swim to the nudist beach where I talk to a girl. The voices are absent. I wait till evening for the magic time. The fisher boats wallow in the bay with lights to attract fish. I sit naked watching them approach. Fireworks explode over the town. There is a commotion inside my head and I stand up erect. I address the god. I accuse him of hounding me. He ignores me. I realise I have to swim for it. I wade into the water. It is a beautiful swim. Like clockwork precision. My muscles well-trained. I could swim forever. I pass a ship with its red and green lights. They see me. They wave to me. But I am on business. The voices will follow. As the morning comes up I am half-way across the channel. There is no going back. I swim beautifully. Forever. I hear the voices coming up behind me. They are to rape me. They talk to me telling me of my fate. I swim. I swim for hours. I am slow but I do not tire. Breast stroke. I see the land ahead. Like Omaha Beach. I see a village. I head North. I have to wait for my brother to fly to Athens After I am reported missing. I head up the coast. After sixteen hours I emerge from the water. I live. I stand on the stone blocks staring back at Skiathos. And howl derision at those who would have killed me. In the night the voices come. I sit at the foot of a cliff petrified. They talk to Switzerland and to Aycliffe for me. I think of The Lady in white watching from the hill in Skiathos as I left my clothes. I think how she walked away, leaving me. To die. I survive the night among rocks that become dead babies. In the morning I swim South to a safer spot. I try to cut my throat with a stone. I am unworthy. I have to wait another night. Then the voices come back. I see boats searching for my body in the channel but I hide. There are men sitting in the boats scanning the water. I am frightened of men. The voices are a part of me. I decide it is time. I swim down to the village. I emerge naked from the sea and an old man gives me A plastic sack to wear. I am taken into the cafe To drink beautiful Greek brandy. They talk of a miracle. The ambulance is on the way. The voices say they will kill me. I am clothed. I strip my clothes off in the ambulance. I want to die naked. We come to the hospital in Volos and I have to dress. I am put in a ward two floors up. I try to fling myself from A window onto the concrete below. An old Greek peasant saves my life With his strong grasp. The voices still tell me I will die. The nuns teach me the Greek for `Thank you'. My brother Arrives and heads for the psychiatrist. We drive helter-skelter To Athens Airport. The voices say I will live. I am mad As a hatter. I believe they are running conspiracies against me. It takes ten years and five books of poetry to recover in England. The Maiden of the Silver Bow crosses the quadrangle, Headed for her pentagrams and whisky. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%