The boulder strewn wash
weighted white with quartz reflections
straggles down the mountainside
leaking into the village
leveling its center into a rocky divide.
From our café table
we study the harsh tableau
over thick Greek coffees
and sesame breadsticks.
The dry wash
torques the village
drawing our eyes
to a wind-up procession
of funereal Greeks,
inclined widows draped in black,
Sunday go-to-meeting clad fishermen
shouldering a casket
up the mountainside.
Beyond our sight
the burial site
where road and wash combine
a perfect vanishing point.
Grey Sparrow Journal 