Amergin

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.