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’.
By David Selzer