Following the signs
The Temple of Athena wasn’t where the painted arrow led
To rocks and weeds, an old man and a dog behind a fence.
Not even fallen jenga stones that might have been her glory once,
like stand there, resurrected to Apollo, on the hill.
So I walked on along the road and found myself enchanted
By a sign I couldn’t read, down curved steps, ribbons on a grille
A flowered space protected with a spirit tree and bell
A small cave turned by villagers into a candled chapel.
The angels there were human and polite
We told each other stories in the fading shadowed light
while chatting women came and went in faded daily clothes
To tend this tender rock where peace and faith could find a home.
Perhaps Athena Gloriana died off with her father.
Perhaps what’s rich is what’s below when we lay down the armour.
Written in Rhodes, Greece.
gabebook 
The Eastern Mediterranean is so rich with layer upon layer of spiritual expressions for so many millennia. It can be intoxicating, overwhelming, reassuring… Thank you for reminding me – I can smell the heat and the dust and the stubborn, struggling trees.