Worship

They come for water. For months, if not for years,

they’ve queued, fragile men and women, shepherds

from the mountains and fishwives with stone bottles

and greying, chipped hands. The tiles at their feet

are worn to troughs that still reflect the sun;

above, the dome’s copper, smoothed out

since dawn.

                     Why don’t they kneel?

At other churches, on other islands, worshippers come

with worry beads, cross themselves forever in blue-eyed

Mary’s sight. Here, they bend, stiffly,

one arm. Preserve their families in jars of salt.

Lot’s wound. On the beach

they offer cures for those

who, they say, are lost.

Mytilini, Lesvos, June 2016