She doubted the wisdom of
writing poems that blamed
what clearly didn't exist
but in the minds of neighbours
those she would greet on the way
to the shops not to get marked out
as a suspicious character
that wouldn't do the town any good.
Instead she would walk the hill
breathe the cool air of an early morning
greet the hares and wonder about
the shape of yonder mountain
where it was whispered gods once dwelt
before the invention of this phantom
that made one think in black and white
that caused her to dress in the colour of death
leaving no room for her dreams:
poems drenched in bitterness.
It just left her weary with memories
she wasn't supposed to have.
Thessaloniki, October 2009
Photo: Kees Klok