Bodrum

Pine-resinous air of summer’s delirium,
Like the sweetest tangerine ever tasted-
And suddenly life is ionized.
Beneath the castle battlements, peacocks
Stroll among oleanders, myrtles and planes,
White doves gyre between the towers,
In shadowy corners flare the violet blooms
And orange fruit of mandrake,
Ripe for poisonous love-philtres.
Three-headed Hecate,
Whose hand grasps the key to Hades,
Smiles and calls for a dog to be sacrificed.
My mind sifts the salvage of shipwrecks:
Gold coins, ostrich eggs, amphorae and kraters,
Stone anchors, statues of Isis,
Chess pieces, daggers, the skeletons of slaves…

Green granite ruins of the Mausoleum,
-Work of the adoring grieving sister-wife,
Who every day would sup a cup of wine,
Mixed with her late lord and husband’s ashes,-
Honouring that young and able satrap
Who ruled so shrewdly, augmenting his might
Without forfeiting the Persian alliance.

Curious as Herodotus,-Father of History
And Father of Lies-I dive into the crowd
Of tourists,taking a two-week break
From reality,and swim among the shark-finned
Wrecks in their eyes.