This morning our poet Fiona Clark evokes memories of a blazing hot day in Greece, disrupted by the jealous gods. It is Day 552 of the daily poems.
Summer storm in the Peloponnese
We are on the beach at Finikounda,
where all day we’ve sunbathed nakedly,
and swam like new-hatched turtles in blue seas,
now sleeping on cool sands, far from the olive groves,
with their secrecies of snakes and scorpions,
moonlit Ionian waters lapping at our feet.
Woken by a giant toad croaking by our heads,
as the mountain’s sundial shadow
shifts and the hot sun blazes down,
driving us out of dew-damp sleeping bags,
into the village for yoghurt and honey, ambrosia.
The jealous gods come hunting, across cobalt skies,
first a solitary cloud, which grows to a host of myrmidons.
When the skies burst, sharp rain-flails lash the harbour,
taverna chairs and tables skittle down the street.
Bundled inside, all grapple with the rattling doors,
as the tempest batters the thin walls,
pressing our bodies against the storm-boards,
feeling the force of the oily-muscled wind,
of spoilt, sun-burnished gods, hell-bent on ravishment.
The sea cascades over the harbour wall,
where drying squid dance a Dionysiakos
strung on suspended fishing lines.
Then just as suddenly, the detumescent gods subside,
sulk off into the washed horizon,
murky waters settle, until they bask innocently
in the sun, restored to glittering translucency.
Fishing boats set sail. Tables are righted,
white cloths spread. The morning blossoms
in bougainvillaea, purple, blazing pink, magenta.
Sardines and olives are served with ouzo and insouciance.
Fiona Clark