Chios is very close indeed  to the Turkish mainland.

I went for a look as it seemed to be the most likely candidate of the handful of places making a serious
claim to have been the actual birthplace of the Homer.  It turned out to have been ravaged by earthquakes and forest fires only a short while before my visit and to have a rather unique Levantine feel to it quite different to the other Greek Islands I had visited.

CHIOS

Up and away from the coast of Karfas,
as you mount the rough track that climbs
to the windswept heart of this desolate island
there are certain recommended guidelines:
your inner dialogue, for example,
which has raged throughout the day,
should become a muted presence
upon this path. And when you reach
the crest of the rise, measuring each step
against the other, listening for
the as yet, distant silence you will pass,
a stone quarry on your left where four
enormous pieces of rock set one
upon another,  reminding  you
of the principle of balance
relative to your own gravity centre.

Passing then innumerable olives
against tiers of crumbling, dry-stone walls
you will encounter the crude notice
that forbids all motorised traffic access.
Ignore then, in the westering Sun,
that pall of grey smoke, on your right,
it is only the shimmering of an olive’s
foliage. On your left as you skirt
the twin churches that share a tended
grave-yard, and just as you track downward
toward the village in the hollow, with its pair
windmills, you will see the Monastery sign.
It beckons you climb once more. Approaching
that edifice and at the brow of a steep
cul-de-sac, the wide Moon will appear
abruptly from behind her tower of stone.

At the start of her climb and therefore
voluminous, orange, she, in vouch-saving
you her borrowed light, has indicated
the moment for your prompt return.
You may, as you descend, by reflex
brush at a wisp of hair, or a cobweb
playing at a corner, close to your left eye.
You will discover that this is merely
your own Moon-shadow keeping
with you step for step. And when
you come, to the perplexing fork (not
noticed as you climbed), be assured:
if you chose inopportunely,
you will soon detect, faintly at first
an unwholesome stench upon the breeze:
when a large rat saunters across your path

you will know to retrace your steps
and begin again at the other fork.
Plumbing the twilit void then, with a score
of plunging bats for company
you will be become aware of the onset
of an insistent internal dialogue bidding
to re-assert its sway. Renew your resolve.
Haul your attention back to the path.
Each gram of fortitude will invest in
the possibility of fair return for, as you pivot
to face the eastward leg of your descent,
toward that paler and still rising satellite
the Gulf dividing Levantine Chios
from the engulfing Turkish mainland
will have become an immaculate expanse
of Moon-begotten, brightly-rippled steel.

The exact nature of this effect
will reveal something of the Way of Now:
intangible, utterly engulfing, benign:
a portal has opened for you…it is beginning.

Chios, Greece.’93.