There on the sea sails wandered,
And unconcerned by the heat
Sycamores blossomed at leisure,
Leaves for streets in December.
The market sounds intermingled;
On naked heights above
Basalt and snow wove light
Into rainbow prisms.
A kiosk in the park by the seaside
Stood empty and white and silent;
The syllabled names of Georgian women
Seemed to smell of grapes;
They became a chirruping
Breezing out to sea,
Sailing out like a black swan
Strangely reaching his neck.
Then a woman called Lamara
Ran down to the water
Where she broke her heel on the pebbles
Tinting her lips with wine.
Medea’s hair was dark and wet;
Arms wove the waterfall;
Drying, drops on skin turned golden,
Sparkling at odd moments.
Stronger even than oleanders
Embraced into a cluster,
The name of Ariadne floated
And dissolved upon the skyline.
Swaying and barely touching the shoreline
A float poised on the water–
Tisana! called a voice from a window–
Natella! a voice answered.
Olga Carlisle and Stanley Noyes.