Mother Sea

By Angeliki Ampelogianni

If I close my eyes, just a bit,

the knife’s edge of the land

just where the blue meets green

meets brown and dark shadows,

I can almost pretend

that there – look! – is another cliff’s edge,

in another sweet country of blues

and whites. I can almost convince myself

that the sand beneath my feet

is my golden pebbled sand, where I built

castles and cooked seaweed pasta soups.

If I just barely close my eyes, just like that,

the land is where Xerxes anchored his ships,

where villagers now hang octopuses

in the sun and drink ouzo at midday.

The sea where I first swam,

blue merging in with lilac and crystal clear.

My reflection twin mirrored in the water.

I can just about see it all. The waves

in front of me, just there, slowly caressing

the shore, the borders of its existence,

despite the racing wind.

When rain drops start pouring

from my eyes, I allow the water to fall.

I can almost pretend that this is my sea too.