Pampered mandolins - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Hanging Violin And Mandolin
photograph by Garry Gay

Often, I go back to that little street

with its lime-washed high walls

and to the silence of its olive groves

and acacia trees.

The frail priest in his withered cassock

still whimpers through humble prayers

and painted rituals, hankering for the day

he called us to the garden.

Our faith was then a dawn that never was.

The sacred book of hymns and canticles

is now torn and all the ancient deities

are back with an unholy vengeance.

Each day at four in the afternoon,

when tired swallows quenched their

thirst on the day's memories

and the teenage fancy of a spoilt only child

took comfort in thoughts of her scented lace,

her father brought her to the sea in a euphony

of thirteen sweetly singing violins.

I watch her – she is so beautiful.

In the solitude of a quiet cave,

the carefree child sits by the cliffs
with seaweed and foam between

her summer tinted thighs, murmuring

newborn tales to gulls and bashful seashells.

At the darkling of the day, she gathers

marigolds in her mother’s garden.

She has a sprig of basil in her hair

and on her breasts, she has the scent of lavender.

A shy night bird sings outside her bedroom

window and fifteen pampered mandolins in love,

softly lull the girl to sleep.