grecian urge

i want to live in a house with no glass in the windows
no doors in the door frames
no carpets on the floors
no junk in the closets
no lights on the ceilings
no clocks on the walls.

there'll be white billowy curtains
let loose in blessed breezes
and cool stone tile underfoot and cheek.
and a long wide patio bleached pale in the sun
as my skin goes bronze, my mouth fills
with icy wine and the vapours tickle my nose.
on the table, a bowl each of
afternoon-warmed grapes and musky salted olives as
dozy wasps abscond with beads of nectar and oil.

the ocean is miles away but if i shade my eyes
and lean back just right it floats just below the patio ledge.
leaning forward, i see small, noisy cars edging their way
along distant cliff roads, but the sound never reaches up here.
just the creak of a bicycle chain and the flap of laundry on the line,
and once in a while, the odd strained sound of the neighbour's piano.
a mile down the track, it's a trick of the sea breeze
that you only hear every second note of every third song
between the cicadas and warblers, gaia's meditation.

an evening bath in near darkness is a favourite
a sunken tub and the dim glow of a single lantern
i run the water cool and soak as the cliff roses just below the window
recover from the heat of another day by releasing their perfume
it's a joyful but quiet celebration, day to night
we are transformed, all.
i barely dress, hair still wet, leaving wet footprints to dissolve
as i cross the little open house all gloaming
and seat myself at a heavily scarred wooden table, you facing me
soft smiles, vinegar'd vegetables and chilled grains on stone plates.
we hardly talk anymore
it'd be like talking to oneself, so easily we read one another;
so little that happens each day.

the expanse of cool bed under pinned straight gossamer netting
the nightsounds of the cliff sides and distant village and sea
a heavy book rests open, pages-down on gently rising, then falling, belly
your hand finds mine as you scribble something on a tablet on your knees
i wonder about the weather, about a tempest, about a teapot
about a rowboat expedition the next week to swim in the deep sea
about the souring dough under the tea cloth and the dwindling wine supply
about tending the small vegetable patch and sharing the meagre bounty
with a warbly little piano player, a mile down the track.

i want to live in a house with no glass in the windows
no doors in the door frames
no carpets on the floors
no junk in the closets
no lights on the ceilings
no clocks on the walls.