Poetry

Tourist

Rod Moran

 

In the dark ice-clad mountains
Above Limassol, a storm brewed.
It was the colour of History.
The wind’s edge was serrated,
With variegated pennants fluttering,
Clouds massed like an Order of Battle.
In broken Greek I requested
A cup of their best Turkish coffee.
The waiter, eyes black as Cypriot wine,
Left—and did not return.