Walking from artificial light
into a moonlit night
of monotoned obscurity,
I am drawn by the sound
of a soft wind swaying
the shadowy trees.
They whisper secrets
into my willing ear.

The effect is poignant
and wraps around me,
like a warm embrace
consoling me to meet
my momentary need.
But then a darker sound –
a gust inviting questions
which reach beyond the now.

I search the distant hills,
where flickering points of light
could be the nightly campfires
from peoples of the past.
Lives in cyclic time,
unbroken lineages still,
back to Roman times,
bold and earthly wise.

The ancients worked this land
with rugged pride
for survival of their tribe.
These days freedom blows
on winds of change;
family ties grow loose
The young now look away,
for livelihoods in town.

Many terraces are lost
swallowed by a creeping wilderness,
walls of stone collapsed,
the grapes and olives gone.
Whatever future waits
for these steep hills;
I find a stillness here
Outside of any time.