Poetic Movements

The moon plays with the shadows of the caves hiding and emerging once from the mountain’s peak and once from the dense clouds; it also plays with me. The rain falls liquid and malleable, like the skies it comes from; it carries itself especially forcefully through the island’s irregular openings; the drops are heavier when touched and they stay. The crows have already moved – together but in distance – to find shelter, as the rushed waves wash ashore killed dolphins. I touch the drops to hold onto something or to wash off the horror. The horizon is closer than most nights and I cannot feel the land anymore, nor do I want to. The moon, fuller than ever, shows and goes; until the church bells ring the first hour of the morning. April – May 2026, Samothraki.