- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Mediterranean Decay
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The ancient name reminders me of huts,
the smell of pigs and dung, a crowing cock,
and crumbling walls along the dun-drenched ruts
that lead you to the abbey on the rock.
In thick-walled houses, large, ill-furnished rooms
still show clear traces of a richer time
in constant dusk. Outside small windows blooms
a peach-tree - virgin blossom framed in grime.
But when I reached the island not a trace
Of what I hoped to find remained. The shore
was crammed with concrete and, bereft of grace,
the shining abbey was itself no more....
They boasted all the dirt had gone, but they
had just refined the purity away.
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