DELPHI
To the dreaming mind
a holy site is equal to a meadow
that floats on silence
high above the olive groves. Oracle
or goatherd,
visionary or a man content
to chew his pipe with his shoes
discarded in the grass;
the imprint is the same
when a memory returns.
A temple dissolves
in a flood of light.
A stone house grips the mountain
as a lightning flash
renders it transparent.
Only the birds
circling their mountain
remain as they were,
higher than time,
with wings locked
and splinters from the sun
nailing the air around them.
David Chorlton
AKROPOLIS EXPRESS
Soldiers board the train collecting
passports. At the edge of sleep,
without papers, we travel on faith
until the officers return. The country
we have entered lies at rest
with a sprinkling
of lights on a blue ground
as wheels rattle and mountain rain
washes against the windows.
Some passengers dream on their feet,
others sit on their luggage
and rock in motion
with the rails. A tapestry
of smoke hangs over us all.
When we stop
it is between stations
where a flashlight fans its way
illuminating weeds beside the tracks.
To the clanking of chains
the journey picks up again
through towns with their wounds
still visible, through checkpoints
and wide open fields,
through cities ancient and new,
while inspectors continue
matching photographs with faces,
unable to tell
who is on their honeymoon
or who is a deserter.
David Chorlton
