On the flatness of Keramoti I wrote one for her,
my Hindu poem for a lapsed Catholic from Mumbai.
I had gone to the Chaldikis after she left Athens,
hoping to see the monasteries of Mount Athos,
ended up in Mohammed Ali’s mosque in Kavala;
passed the oil rigs in the mist on the boat toThasos;
camped on the hill above the quarries of Aliki;
swam over sea urchins massed on marble beds.
Then on to Keramoti where in the salt marshes
land and sea merge all along the absent shore,
and with a glass of retsina in the rose orange dusk
I pleaded for a boon: Sati my love, let us be one.