Pampered Mandolins Poem by Chris Zachariou

Often, I go back to that little street
with its lime-washed high walls
and to the silence of its olive groves
and acacia trees.

The frail priest in his withered cassock
still whimpers through humble prayers
and painted rituals, hankering for the day
he called us to the garden.

Our faith was then a dawn that never was.
The sacred book of hymns and canticles
is now torn and all the ancient deities
are back with an unholy vengeance.

Each day at four in the afternoon,
when tired swallows quenched their
thirst on the day's memories

and the teenage fancy of a spoilt only child
took comfort in thoughts of her scented lace,
her father brought her to the sea in a euphony
of thirteen sweetly singing violins.

I watch her - she is so beautiful.

In the solitude of a quiet cave,
the tailor's daughter sits by the cliffs
with seaweed and foam between
her summer tinted thighs, murmuring
newborn tales to gulls and bashful seashells.

At the darkling of the day, she gathers
marigolds in her mother's garden.
She has a sprig of basil in her hair
and on her breasts she has the scent of lavender.

A shy night bird sings outside her bedroom
window and fifteen pampered mandolins in love,
softly lull the girl to sleep.