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HEAVENLY PASTURE

HEAVENLY PASTURE

29 Feb, 2024

   Τon summer nights, this petrified hour between life and spotless death, I spread my wings over golden memories. Once-youthful fingers ache in the thick gray garbilli as I clumsily cross the tracks in rubber flip-flops. The train screeches and whistles behind me leaving the French station nervous, as if it wanted to continue running undisturbed on the tracks and I made his life difficult.

   I approach a row of stationary wagons. They have worn out the trips in their eyes. They were left exposed to the rain, sun and wind of summer. They look scared. They fear that they are eternally rooted in the dust, since the tears, laughter, hugs and handkerchiefs of the passengers are removed with the train. I climb with a somersault and pass through their wide-open bellies, to be the first across, on the sandbank. Can I catch up and spread my towel next to Urania, whose husband does not like water.

   A crowd of happy voices tumbles into the blue, life jackets are thrown left and right, while some flag bearers run to nail their umbrellas as close as they can to the pinwheel. "I won't dive", she excuses herself, "since Nikos's eyes are red and he didn't come with us". "Me neither," I add, "the water is cold today." I prefer the smell of coconut wafting off her slippery skin, the way sunscreen evaporates from the blazing sun.

   On her back, with arms and legs waves pushing into the sand, calm as the sea that is sunning itself on an August afternoon, she smiles at me. Two children's castles emerge for breasts under the untied swimsuit, while Garbis tries in vain to steal the tangled black seaweed from her in the shallows of the beach. For seconds as she rocks to turn her side, she lets me see her shells clear above the yellow stones. How I wish I were a grain that trembles under her body, to be forever entangled in the hair she throws back for nets!

   Today, I still dream of us together. She is like summer, the light that overcomes the darkness, to make the sea happy, the fruits juicy, the olive leaves to look like silver fish. To give rastoni, to sprout umbrellas everywhere, to leave white marks on chocolate and granita glue on children's fingers. And I, when the sun draws the moisture from her eyes, come like autumn. A gray bird darkening the flawless, yellowing the cracked earth leaving a taste of sour grapes and must. Through decadence, promise of spring to give her with their own moisture.

   Always midnight, like the Minotaur, he looms from the ceiling. As I burn the last dynamite on the lips, her skin effectively exudes the scent of coconut in my arms and the coolness of the poplar outside the French.

 

 

 

photo seth0s / https://pixabay.com 

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