We wake up to air as clear as water
sit on the terrace under the Carob tree
as the shadows move across the mountain
whose spine looks like a sleeping dragon
warming its reptilian blood in the morning sun
waiting its moment to arise and shake itself
free of olive groves, villas, and prickly pears
Plants are waging a defensive war
against heat and drought and hungry creatures
not only cacti, but the cups of Mediterranean
Acorns are tough and scaled with prickles
and dark green gloss or pale silver green
dress the trees from Olive to Eucalyptus
The absence of people, as Cretans
hide indoors in COVID lockdown caution
makes us feel like the last people on earth
as we drive the back roads where we are scarcely likely
to be caught by policemen sleeping somnolent in their station
in the Winter midday hour – blazing fierce, this close to Africa
No tourists to disturb the hibernating hoteliers
piles of nested chairs congregate in corners of kafenio courtyards
but supermarkets still shelter cars from the sun
while masked customers complete their weekly shop
but masks don’t stop the swapping of sparse gossip
at the open-air market—fruit and vegetables piled high as ever
This is Crete in COVID lockdown Winter
hotter than a British summer and dry
except for the occasional storm when Greek gods play bagatelle
bouncing thunderballs around the mountains
and drenching the lands in torrential rain
flash flooding the dry gorges and riverbeds
We steep like teabags in the many moods
from spectacular sunrises bursting up from cliff-bounded sea
sunrays angling through the odd cloudy day
resting tourist boats on the sparkling bay
awaiting their turn at the boatyard beauty parlour
purple bloom on ripening black olives
Family bubbles emerge for the olive harvest
for some things in life must go on as normal
and for a few weeks, the groves are as busy
as the centipedes that appear each morning on the terrace
– there is knocking down of olives, bonfiring the prunings
blueing the air with smoke plumes – testament to the busyness
And afterwards, the empty garden chairs doze off again
underneath the olive trees…
This is Crete
© Andrew Wilson, 2025
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Jennifer Wagner, hosted by Grace in Poetics, invites us ti write about Local Wonders in the shadow of Ted Kooser’s poem – So This Is Nebraska
