The Maquis*

The sun pulls the scent
from the leaves and
sticks and
bushes of herbs dried crisp
in the Maquis
Insects and
lizards scuttle from holes
searching for the
hot shade
of my body

I stand
soundless
stopped on the dusty path
that
guides my trudging sandals
back and forth
through the chirping of cicadas
and sharp rocks
and scratchy branches
of the brush

Centuri Porte lies far below me
with silver leaved
trees
leading
to the
sizzling streets of the
Centre Ville

Sometimes
the sounds of of whole conversations
by little plump ladies
gossiping
drift lazily up to me
surprising my silence

The cherished noise
of the diesel engines
chug
chug
chug
chug
signal that the fishermen
return to port
with their morning catch
wriggling in baskets
ready for buyers
after a good haggle and gesture

The sounds of the engines
ride the breeze
from the sea and echo
on the hills
around me
blowing through the herbs
fluttering the olive
then silver
then olive
leaves of the
dense scrub clinging to this
hillside

Staring at the glittering sea
my eyes glaze
at the blue and purple water
with little sparkling peaks
of waves that
tickle the rocks
so far away
I can only hear
the sound of their whisper
from my memory

*(A dense growth of small trees and shrubs in the Mediterranean area.)