After a morning walk we sat in a Katapola cafe with freshly squeezed orange juice, watching the locals and tourists as they passed. For some strange reason the poetry muse decided to visit.
It's a loose limbed feeling
nothing to do but watch
the same characters
in their daily dance
of musical chairs with coffee
as voices and gestures
filled with emotion
debate the weather.
Church bells rang this morning
celebrating the arrival of a new month.
Olive harvest is near
and goats fear the heat
of eager island ovens.
A north wind warns of winter
cloaking Hora life
as flags pay attention
and sails remain furled
in port side safety.
She is wrapped in a habit,
sealed against paganism,
removed from the family
created in her former life.
She tends to the altar
and a chaotic coven of cats.
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