Windswept

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.

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Poetic Movements

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