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Gathering
the Golden Apples of the Hesperides
Kay
Cotton
Ancient
Epidauros
We are searching
for the sacred
groves, the
fruits of the gods, fruits
from weather-beaten
myths, sweeter
than the familiar
truths of home.
The serpentine
roads take us down
into the Peloponnissos.
Suffering,
worn out
by the journey, we check,
recheck directions,
pass the dance
on the disco
wall, the orange
trees, their
skimmed milk limbs
spiralling
in our dipped headlights,
turn right
onto rough new concrete.
'Take it faster'
says Ilias,
as we skid
up the narrow track
burning our
tyres, encounter
a panorama
fit for stars.
* * *
Approaching
the site of the ancient thetre
we see the
gates are chained. 'KEEP
OUT'.
A rambler
with a German accent says
'Hercules
has been here.
He has killed
giants, monsters,
dogs with
dragons' heads on their tails.
All are gone.
I am surrounded
by gods, heroes
and nymphs.'
He smiles,
walks on, and the white horse
stands
where he stood
before, with his neck
roped into
a ring by the door
and there
is no grass. Nothing matters
but that we
breathe our fill:
take photographs,
pick up potsherds,
stones, olive
wood, anything
to make memory,
claim connection.
Moments stop,
start, pass.
High above
us, scavenging birds
of prey circle
in uplift
of our incontinent
desires,
pick great
holes in our better selves.
We think only
of the apples, the golden apples.
* * *
There is a
smell of sage.
A man passes
us by, who gestures silently.
He spreads
his arms, encompasses this space
between the
mountains and the sea,
shrugs, rubs
his thumb across his fingers,
indicates
that only the power of money
can prgress
the restoration. Moving on,
he leads us
to the lost chapel, to see the
icons.
Coming home
across the mountains that night,
we sing of
valour, constancy, following
the master,
intent to
look through the scaffolding,
beyond
any selfish
dread of a tarmac road bringing
plebeians
here in their
uncivilised thousands.
'Let instability
do its work'
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