what bird’s spirit, or wind’s
what seas, what incommunicable spaces,
as thought have I come
the unverifiable land?
is clear as a star
the green gulfs of twilight,
still (as stars do
they beacon your faith, your love).
is there yet in the mountains
valley, my beautiful valley.
has no name now, or hardly a name.
the name it was called then sang
a carillon, a Greek name
the ring of waves in it, and the clarity
the island light. It is strange
should know of it and none other.
white road climbs—little road
with oleanders and dim yews
a world that is vacant almost till you come
the village houses up hill, five or ten,
all way and low with cypress
mountains are all round save
the sea line splits the sky.
the dream is thus, and always
is late evening and a boy sings
another’s flute. Myntas,
who is Myntas?
till the sudden darkness
out all except
mountains. 0, I see them
broken swords lying along the world,
up as if to fence
valley and the great stars watching.
is confusion and red fire
shoutings of terror in the dark,
a child cries out for me;
can feel the pull of it now. I must have loved him
But I am helpless.
who are these
look through my dream with dark eyes,
faces, fair unforgettable faces
hair drawn back by wooing fingers
mountain winds from neck and olive shoulders?
0, who is Myntas?
comes to me now,
Like music upon an intervening wind,
how wide a water!
world, a dreaming within a dream,
yet so real it pulls
a chance moment all the still bells
mind has in its belfries
some strange office of remembering
I have come, and not unwilling,
So many wondering times.
Copyright © 2008 [Fen Tyler]