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Jonathan Wonham

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Breakfast on Ipsario

Sardines and eggs, yellow plums
from a fallen tree in the ruined agora
smell of thyme, brief explosions
of pale blue butterflies

from a fallen tree in the ruined agora
I traced the path where I threaded my way
in the morning cool, back and forth
like a shuttle on a loom of thought

I traced the path where I threaded my way
among the plane trees and fig trees
where goats lay in fern shadow or clink-
clinked their bells up the green gorge

in the morning cool, back and forth
among the plane trees and the fig trees
which gave way to marble on the peaks
clink-clinking beneath my feet

where there was nothing now
that I could wipe my fingers on
but rough stone, wiry bushes or a handful
of pale blue butterflies

that I could hardly wipe my fingers on
indefinite as Fengari in the mist
when the sardine broke open revealing
its row of soft, digestible bones

of rough stone, wiry bushes and a handful
of yellow plums with blushing cheeks
I ate beneath a tree blown permanently south
its aching branches holding out shadows

where I sucked and threw away the stone
indefinite as Fengari in the mist
a live offering if you like or
fulfilment of a plum tree's dying wish.

 

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