The Road
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Past the house and further, the white road,
not the cobbled lane, curving tight

between blinding white walls on the island.
Rough tan block, the house yellowish

against the blue sky, a wood porch, capped
by brick tiles, the porch leaning against the road,

the grape arbor before it, tangled and sweet.
This is where the sadness lies, on this

road, in its jagged curve, in the pattern
woven by the vines and cast onto the smooth white,

crushed stones, ground to a fine dust, a powder
finer than the mist that rises

up the mountain in the mornings,
through the fig orchards, ghosting the olive trees.