Vespers At Aghios Charalambos

(This poem was written at Milos in the Cyclades. Many people know of Santorini where the volcano top has created a bay but Milos has a much better "caldera" as you can see in the photo above. The poem derived from me walking to the highest point of the town - to the Church of Aghios Charalambos - the miracle worker. There was a service taking place but only the priest and me were there to participate. The poem is printed in the latest edition of Carillon magazine - many thanks to Graham the editor for choosing it but if you do read the magazine the last line should not be italicised.)



At the top of the village, at the top of the day,
The caldera below is a cooling skillet in the sinking sun.
In Agios Charalambos a white-robed priest flits
Between ikons, lighting the lamps.
Each gutter and flare of candle flame
Reveals miracles performed anew:
Hollow-eyed and churlish a corpse is raised to a second chance;
A dragon flinches before Agios Georgio’s sword.

Between lectern and ikonostasis,
Word and flesh,
The priest chants this joyful mourning of the dying day
eleison…eleison…eleison…

He looks at me, narrow-eyed and questing;
“Catholiki”,I mouth, as if this explains anything
About our shared presence here; we are
Priest, chanters and people together.
Call and response have elided, have become one
Under the painted gaze of long dead bishops and saints

A single bell chimes, the sound palpable,
A measuring–rod for the space between silences.
My steps echo its rhythm into the yard,
Down the cobbled slope to the village;

For the congregation below the day is ending
In bars and tavernas
In hopes of wonders to be worked before next day break.