for John Lucas

John, there's only this last half-inch of ouzo left,

a fistful of bivalve pistachios and half

a jar of olives. The tan's long flaked away. Well,

your letter asks, glad to be back?

Don't remind! That

roller-coaster taxi-ride to Athens Airport,

the jet's growling up-rush descent to Manchester

over black, snow-daubed Pennine Hills.

So things happened

after I left! Four Spanish women, unexplained,

you met at Katerina's, plus two Germans and

a villainous-looking man who could have come from

anywhere, reminding you of Monsieur Rigaud

as Citizen of the World. Then George's name day

celebrated one day before – this is Greece! – with

village friends, and one day after this with you, then

with other friends the following!

I'm not surprised.

All those adventitious comings/goings. Fireflies

in Katerina's scented garden that evening

with a Foreign Correspondent and the son of

a famous children's author and Katerina

throwing bones to dogs, and boisterous about

her translations of Pushkin, solemn about Greek

distrust of Albanians. On our walk back

you observed the island was now a-yap with dogs.

And talking of that walk back and fireflies, how can

I forget the unspooky little cemetery

with its exquisite nightlights, moon-glazed white marble,

how sensible it felt walking there at midnight,

breaking our talk of Manley Hopkins to do so,

(Age and age's evils, hoar hair,/Ruck and wrinkle)

then sauntering back to the flat as if life was all

easy-going-natural, the gods not bothered

what we did or spoke of, dogbark keeping at bay

thoughts of scurvy banditry.

Now you've discovered

the island's very best retsina in a shed

behind a little store – there on that same road back –

where one Maria dispenses wine from a vast

barrel as well as a superb local red sold

from a barrow near the church, good enough, you say,

to convert to Greek Orthodoxy for. All this

for next time, eh?

How often we've agreed that there's

no longer a cogent language for gratitude.

Words turn hard in the mouth as if you've literally

bitten your tongue and swollen it. I'm afraid, John,

there is not enough ouzo left to make me chance

those sort of words. Still, I raise what is to all the

overlapping lives our easygoing friendship

comprehends, even in a moonlit stroll round graves.