I stayed in the harbour of the town.      

 High above it was the ruined castle.     

It was not mentioned in the guides:

Karystos then was not a tourist town

and the impressive ruin was not a part

of anyone’s concern as I could tell.

One day – the last of three or four

I stayed there – I set off to find

the way. There was a path that rose

from the backstreets of the town.

On rough-hewn steps of crumbling rock past

tangled gardens, orchards, fig trees;

 along ancient dry-stone walls

and through the scent of pines

the path pulled upwards. The climb

was timeless: the only record of

its length the diminishing size

of the harbour and the town below.

Although the seasonal wind was rife

the route was sheltered in a scented

warmth; tiers of sandstone dust,

pine-needles and footworn stone                                

embraced the smells of jasmine,                                    

mule-dung, orange-blossom and hot

dry-rot from long abandoned houses

clinging to the way. Three riders                  

and a riderless horse passed me

as I crossed a winding road.

The beasts were pacing downhill

as slowly as the native tortoises do.

The castle, always in my direct view,                   

was nearer then: the town itself

 invisible behind the hunchback

of the hill. Far below the craft upon

the waters of the Gulf were white birds

 roosting on a cloth of deepest blue.   

                                                       

I mount a dilapidated wall to glimpse

the sheltered, sea-side town but still

there is no sight of it. There are

warer-melons growing, recumbent

on the shaded earth of an ancient

garden; an array of implements              

idling by a tank of thick, green

water. Crickets sing me onwards

to a small white church – all stucco -

with firmly bolted door and stunted,

angular bell-tower. My way picks

steeply through an open field toward

a ruined farmhouse. The isolation

of the site diverts me from my path

to cross a shattered door frame,           

and step within. There is a scuffle

from a corner of the room so thick

with debris and I think of rats.                       

 

Then a movement brown and subtle

upon a cross-beam stark against

the azure sky. Two enormous eyes;

hollow, amber, stare right through me

then blink, just once, as only owls do.

This is the closest I have ever been          

to such a beast; the largest owl

I’ve ever seen. His eyes are wide

as pools and bottomless. His head

glides left, then right in that uncanny

syncopation that transfixes

tiny prey. A non-committal shrug,

a turn, and he launches into space;                          

one headless phantom soundlessly

disappearing beyond the ruined wall.

Graced with the presence of a god;

shocked into remembrance of ancestral pasts,

I can only stumble up and onwards.

My feet are heavier now though

the castle’s thick stone walls,

in disembodied mounds have become

clearly visible just one short climb ahead.

I reach an earthen cliff-face

dotted at the base with dilapidated

out-houses the walls of which

are hardened mud or cob. None of them            

have roofs and the inhabitants,

by the lingering smell, were

certainly colonies of goose or hen.

I circumnavigate the steep face,

clamber up a bank and from among

more pines can easily peruse

the empty shell. I mount the last

part of a slope amid a fierce

and blustering wind and make                       

an opening in the highest wall.                 

 

Down in the deserted snugness

of the place the rough carpet

of grass beneath my feet is brittle          

and stiff; punctured by the fractured           

limbs of rocks. I approach an arch

for a view of whence I’ve come

and must, with a reflexive snatch

at the uneven stone, hold myself

from being hurled, by an insane

wind, headlong at the jagged rocks  

below! The fury of that cheated wind

drains all my former power

and pioneering thrust. Holding on

as grimly as a baby chimpanzee

atop the highest branches in a hurricane,

I peer down at the miniature town.

Taking breath from this torrent of air

is near impossible. Shaken I withdraw.

 

Back with the malevolent grass

I turn about to seek some other

exit from the dell; retracing                                     

my steps slowly, by this easier,

wider route. I pass no signs,

no warnings, or fences to keep

the over-inquisitive visitor away.

But three years later, to the day,

I know I had already seen the object

of my quest far from that summit.                                 

I had climbed there for some insight:

a symbol for my earth-bound

search and found it there, in that

ruined farmhouse; was awakened by it

roused by those eyes that never sleep;

that never venture forth or back                     

from the vastness of the moment 

  –  the ever-expanding but elusive present.

.