The bear dances,
the great spirits of the north
bring blessings. He’s smiling,
memories of wild salmon, sea otters
and white tailed eagles,
behind him the Inuit canoeist paddles
in blue and grey, sees the water
fall away before him,
grips the paddle tightly,
strokes deep and urgent
He is paddling towards my sister’s
photograph. The one of two cyclists
riding on the surface of the sea,
the causeway hidden by the rising tide,
uninhibited, naked in the dawn sunlight,
the one at the back raising his hand in greeting.
Cheeky buggers she said.
There’s an egg on the desk,
onyx, a gift. The owner of the taverna in
Epidavros took me in when I limped
down the donkey path at dawn,
served me stuffed vine leaves, squid
salt fresh, huge tomatoes quartered
sliced in a sea of virgin olive oil
and basil
I think of it as my travelling desk,
my gateway, an argosy. Across the room,
the bookshelves creak, bend,
bow under the weight of dog-eared books,
wood carved in elaborate ornaments
and so many pictures.
Keep writing 