"Blue Plums, 1971" by Lynne Thompson
“Blue Plums, 1971”
for Judy G.
When a poet wrote, “I’d been thinking of
Greece, as I almost always am,” I recalled
I had not thought of Skopelos since being
on Skopelos, but his words made its beauty
return in a rush: nine grieving and wizened
widows keeping watch, laying in wait for us
as we sailed into the port — was it Glóssa?
Agnóntas? — every black-clad hoping to sell
us a sleeping place in their white-washeds;
the one we followed up the creaky, cobbled
stairs; the blue plums we ate on our return
from Adrines beach, sweet plums so content
in their skins my body rebelled then expelled
them; that first night of stars creating a light
so bright that night was no different than day.
We’d sailed there from Corfu, drunk on sailors,
ouzo; doing wheelies on vespas under an almost
moon, fresh from arriving, foolhardy, in Athens
where we’d reserved no rooms, where we were
lucky because a young Jamaican gifted us — clue-
less Americans — his flat, then left us to our own
devices only after he’d improvised a meal of orzo,
shrimp; poured retsina tasting of the Aleppo pine
resin many ancients favored, although his favor
was no favor, as all we wanted was to relax by a sea
where Odysseus might have knelt. We didn’t have
enough time to lay claim to the ways of the Greeks
which is the lasting lament of men and countries.
We moved on, renewed, to arrive to dark days in
Dubrovnik with its red-tiled roofs and its gothic
Rector’s Palace; where young people spoke to us in
whispers because they seemed to know what was to
come; where we devoured bowls of peaches and figs,
briefly, before returning to O say can you, photos we’d
never develop, lengths of jacquard to wrap in our hair,
memories that have turned more glorious than truth.
Photo Credit: 5EYED