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(if there really is a bunker under here, I’d hope to be included on the wartime guest list for wine and canapés!) I’ve got this thing about the instant – when now becomes the future. Most of all – I’d like to be that workman erecting scaffolding for the something that might happen, if we’re lucky, later on. 106
page 109
Big Friday Vafes , Crete If I were a mountain I would offer you thyme and time again for it’s yet late and the morning and the sunshine hold me where the breeze shares air with scarred scree (it’s been so long and my snow – still barely – melting) can you taste the springtime fragrance of un-named flowers and unseen birdsong? Down-hill-wind a single gunshot fires the death of winter while the bells are chiming twice for every hour and children march a scarecrow through the village streets shouting words I wasn’t born to and haven’t learnt to understand. You extend your kindly invitation to observe a ritual of belief I’ve never shared and I prevaricate – history is marching slowly to the graveyard. A cross marks the summit where the time of year is easing and I believe in sea and sky and the bell-ringing of goats and the scalpelled edge of rock on snow and if you care to turn towards me even in this dead of springtime you will find me – 107

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(if there really is a bunker under here, I’d hope to be included on the wartime guest list for wine and canapés!) I’ve got this thing about the instant – when now becomes the future. Most of all – I’d like to be that workman erecting scaffolding for the something that might happen, if we’re lucky, later on.

106

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