Agios Giorgios

On the hillside with our goats.
Below us, at the end of a crisscross path
through spiky bushes and dry thorns,
the defunct monastery
we’ve been calling home for a while,
squatting among ledges of rock.
And the shore, and sunlit clouds
letting down their hair in the storybook smooth
mirror mirror of the bluest sea.

A ship, too far away to hear, rounds the cape.
From where we sit it seems to sail
through the open bell tower
of the homely white church of Agios Giorgios,
its long wake a thread passing
through the eye of a needle.

Earth stitched to sky, sky stitched to sea,
all of a piece, all stuff from old stars.
Every thing is the bequest of dying stars,
stars we carry still, transformed,
in the syndicate of elements
from which oceans and bacteria
and ourselves are made.

All of a piece for a moment
while the bells pin roses to our silence,
before we re-invent I am, you were, they will be,
only a passing ship.
by Joe Smith