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Poseidon had many mistresses, but his youngest, it is said, he kept secret on the isle of Paxos - a white wedge of contorted limestone, pitted with caves and hidden springs - an inundated remnant of a larger and more ancient land.

Greece, now, is a dim outline of mountains across a turquoise sea, but, five hundred years ago this place of flowers and herbs with its dark, silent cypress groves, became a sanctuary again. Statesmen and old soldiers, on the run from mainland feuds, made new lives here, gave their names to seventeen villages and built seventeen Christian churches. They terraced the steep slopes and planted olive trees, oranges and lemons. With them came their wives, children, servants, and flocks of sheep and goats to graze the meagre grass. They settled down together and prospered.

An olive tree never dies. When the trunk becomes hollow with age the roots renew themselves. A branch cut back produces many more which form new hollows as they intertwine and grow together.

each olive tree
a silent wounded dancer
from another time

and their heritage is liquid gold. The oil, pressed and strained through heavy mats, cures any ailment - a baby’s cold, the rheumatics of old age, a new bride’s first night fears. It used to be sold all over the world. Today, the price of oil has fallen so low tourism must take its place, and the family press is covered in cobwebs.

toothless, telling beads
only our presence feeds him
so he lets us see

In the taverna traditional Greek music is played ‘on the internet’, except on Sunday afternoons when a live group appears. Nowadays, professional musicians have to be hired for weddings.

“They sing for money
in the afternoons - we sing
for love each night.”

Thomos is sad. His children no longer know how to milk a goat, or make the cheese ‘salt enough to float an egg’ which keeps for years. Today he drives a tourist bus, too wide for these steep corners.

grandad reversing
round the bend - young driver
leaning on his horn

Motor cruisers roar into the tiny harbour, flying the Greek flag or the red ensign. It seems a pity -  “No!” shouts Spiros, “they eat lobster.” Perhaps he hopes the sale of lobsters will pay to mend the rotting jetty which is sinking into the sea.

painted fishing boats
rock on their reflections
water colours run

The single gift shop in the village sells twenty different kinds of sun cream.

topless daughters
greet the sea - aquamarine
and pearls, or gold

How can Poseidon choose between such riches ?

By moonlight the black olive leaves whisper,
shimmering silver in perpetual dance.