When the island’s tourist industry began

to grow, a hillside – overlooking the bay,

and a short walk from the centre of town,

a port become a brief stop-over

for small cruise ships – was bought by an oil broker,

and transformed into a tiered hotel,

an open-air pool and bar at each level.

 

The one at the top is named ‘Aeolus’ since –

despite the high, glazed windbreaks – when the wind

prevails up there it moans through the gaps.

But Aeolus was merely keeper

of the winds – in a bag, according to

Homer. Zeus was god of all the weathers.

The hillside has been lashed with rain all day.

 

There is no one in the pool. In the bar

a member of the équipe d’animation

is still waiting, in a far corner,

to demonstrate Greek dancing to any

of the French guests who might wish to learn.

The barman, Alexandros, is employed

only for the season. Before Covid,

all through the autumn and winter months,

he would work on the cruise ships. Now he worries

for his family. Should they emigrate?

 

He is watching Alpha TV on his phone,

the images breaking from Kalamata,

famous for olives and olive oil –

in the Peloponnese peninsula, whose

population is in decline: body bags

on the dockside; survivors, all young men –

from Egypt, Syria, and Pakistan –

making for anywhere it seems but Greece,

staring at something only they can see.

 

Meanwhile, on the music loop that plays

like perpetual motion through the speakers

round the wind-swept pool and bar, Marvin Gaye

asks, ‘Anybody here seen my old friend,

Martin?’, and, later, Mick Hucknell will

‘wanna fall from the stars’.