Faraway the sea was a night-time city.
I stood unsteady, too much wine;
faraway the sea was shining in the moonlight.
Closer, by my hand in fact, a string of lights
on a clothes line,
a string of lights like a harbour-front on a Greek island.
Zaknthos, but that’s years ago;
the restaurants down by the harbour,
people passing in droves, waves of warm night humour,
boats jangling
and a quartet playing its way up and down the strip,
bouzouki music to clinking glasses.
My legs gone to rubber,
recent rain reflecting light from watching shrubs;
I would have sung, but it was far too cold.
Happy Christmas.
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