The Smoke of Evening Fires

Lord, how many times have I climbed this hill?
the road seems stonier, steeper. How can that be?
I’ll rest here a while,
watch the low sun trail shadows
over the rich bottom lands
and the white church beyond the bridge.
The shouts and laughter of children
from the river, rise soft on the evening air.

It should be a better harvest for us all this year,
spring came early, the blossom
thick and white as dancers’ petticoats.
The hives rang with bee-song.
I should have had good bottom land by the river
not this stony hillside where nothing fat will grow.
I should have had good bottom land,
rich black earth, groves of olive,
vines, rows of lemon trees,
a flock billowing like a cloud down the hillside.
I could have been rich,
drank each night in the taverna,
laughed, sang to the bouzouki,
wept for the troubles of lovers,
given candles to the church.

I might finish the wall this year,
get a young back to help.
It is no work for an old man.
Two sons dead in the war,
a third gone away somewhere, hah,
do I have a grandchild? who knows?
who would have such sons?

The time we caught the stallion in the salt marshes,
his mane and tail draggled with mud,
his hooves flailed and punched the air
nostrils flared, teeth bared,
the shrill cries of him, he screamed like a woman,
my sons tight on the ropes,
how we laughed, hah, such sons.

The stew smells good, rich,
thick with meat and herbs, oregano, black olives
the sweet breath of new bread.

I am weary.

It is my daughter who waits for me now
sets bread on my table
simmers stew over the heart of her fire
brims the jug with retsina but my bed is empty,
my blankets cold and my legs ache in the night;
only the moon shares my pillow.