Calypso

My paranmph has worn the cave-mouth smooth
toing and froing at your beck and call:
retsina, pitta, skewered lamb,
and tarama in season (my fished-out waters
yielding all they could). A tender
of my own sweet self besides - longevity
on a plate, the colour of creamed rice.

While you, until the telegram, did little
but mope and maunder at sea’s rim -
unstrung and dewy-eyed 
over the bouzouki-string of foam,
ravelling and unravelling
your wet dream of a constant wife.

Rumour-mongers at the edge of sleep
tell me you are snug, Odyesseus,
stripped ballock-naked under olive leaves,
like nothing so much as a fresh brand
slow-kindling in an ash-heap.

Feel me now beneath your duvet, Subtle One,
a dream masseuse breathing on your spark,
grazing your thighs like furious muslin.