The Song of Greece

The whitewashed wall outside the window glows pink in the early sun

Sparrows. We wondered where they had all gone from our English gardens.

They are all here. Declaring the lightening of the day with their banter. Demanding attention.

The church bell tolls seven times.

The cockerel crows harshly to his hens. The hens reply softly. They are about their scritchy scratchy business.

The clocks in the house tick tock. All tell a different time and sing a different song

Later the pilot will give us his unseen aerobatic display somewhere over the hill in the sky blue blue sky.

The black weeded women will shout their conversation through their windows and in their yards. Insistent. Serious. No laughter. What do they say?

The brown and grey men will sit in earnest nodding discourse over coffee and cigarettes at the tables outside cafes and tavernas. They stare as we try to catch their words as we pass. What do they say?

A new sound in this ancient land. Of solitary voices, shouting earnestly into mobile phones. Unseen listeners.

The sounds of domestic industry, and now a pigeon coos gently for its mate. Where are you. Where are you. And then a tractor tearing down the narrow lane. Raw sound interrupting the gentle domestic hum. A two wheeled motorcycle roars by. No helmet safety here. One hand on the handlebars, one clutching phone or frappé, shouting greetings. Always greetings. Through car windows. No care for traffic or schedule. Chatter chatter. What are they saying?

The sea sings a quiet song as the small tide holds it tight at the shore. Short verses fit snug around the small waves. Sand, from fine yellow white, through course flat autumn hued grains to pebbles rendered smooth by the relentless wash of wavelets and drilled by brother stones to make lucky Suffolk ‘wilkies’. These form the orchestra to play the song of the waves. Lullaby sounds. No crashing cymbals here. Brush on timpani. The ocean is a distant cousin to this almost landlocked sea. The moon stroking the water on a tide that reveals only a ribbon-strand of freshly washed shore. Brush on timpani. Muffled by the weed from sea and the leaves from the shore. A blanket carelessly dropped here and there to cloak the cool sand and stones beneath.

The clock bell calls once again. Relentless. Time passing in small segments reminding us that this day will pass into tomorrow and is not forever. We are not forever.  The cockerel less instant now. More distant. Satisfied his hens are all accounted for. So far.

On Friday and Sunday when the bells play a calling tune, a come to church tune, a dog howls in sympathy. Does he want to go or does he want the congregation to stay?

In the groves the cicadas sing to their olives. Grow green and fat and shiny. Grow purple and black and round. Shine sun, shine. In the heat of the afternoon they crescendo as all else falls silent. Until the white fluff of cloud gains height and colour and uses round hammered drum-rolls on the timpani to herald warm thirst quenching rain for the trees.

Four cats always waiting for our return. Feed me calls. Plaintive mews. Outside the door all the way to their den of beds and food. Spiky wet and dusty dry. Hungry for company and full bellies.

We four women making plans, making work, making chitter chatter laughter as we go about this old renewed house. Kitchen chatter, cleaning chatter. Gossip and opinion and advice. Rich archives delved. New material examined and stored away in ever overcrowded libraries. Four women. Four voices.

Again the clock chimes it’s time. For tea. For rousing women and cats. For plans and tasks and new sights and sounds. The song of the Greek day has begun.

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