SKOPELOS
(for Martin Stannard, at 70)
A man can sit, is sitting in fact, on a bench for hours
watching the harbour on this island although watching is
not quite right – not right at all, in fact. Occurring is what’s
happening – a change of life and people, not facts since
the details aren’t worth mentioning and anyway irretrievable.
Perhaps something needs to happen but it's a strain in this
heat just to move, so events aren't possible as singularities –
if that's the word – more as accumulations. The light from
inside a diamond without its symmetry; like most beautiful
places, there's a lopsidedness because the slump from then
to now to whenever is constant but unremarkable – although
I mention it: I came here nearly forty years ago, untested and
ignorant of how much could go wrong but also what would go
right. When something like that happens – I can't say what –
the rest seems pointless, with the vast mountains of things no
more than piles of pencil shavings of the sort left when you've
sharpened what you have to say then find it isn't much:
in the saying is what you had to say.
Copyright © Paul Sutton, 2022
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