Eurydice of the summer dusk - a poem by Chris Zachariou

mandolin

I glimpsed her fleeting glance
through the needles of the pines
and the unsullied whiteness of the sand.

In the comatose August heat
the stern voice of the preacher
hushed the singing of the blackbirds
and from the belfry, a blast of purple
noise raged relentlessly inside her head.

Eurydice clasped her hands praying
for the rage to leave her, but she was
tangled in the storyline of a minstrel’s tale.
Sin and sainthood battled on the rocks
until the struggle against the belfry was won.

For days we sheltered from the deluge
inside deserted caverns by the sea.
On the thirteenth whisper of her year
we quenched our growing pains until the heat
began to scorch the freshness of our minds.