The overnight ferry from Piraeus was perilous.

Into the water’s darkness and vastness, I peered.

Iraklion’s terra cotta shined like an oasis at daybreak.

Finding my humble quarters in Greek was curious.

A demitasse coffee, dolmas, pita, feta. Noon neared.

The palace at Knossos. Broken by a faraway quake.

Night swarmed with hustlers, smoke and mosquitoes.

Too many Zeos but plenty of laughs made my bed.

Shrill cry of children like birds; up and out to destiny.

First on the bus to Matalá, touring as if incognito.

Sketching rows of olive trees, watching goats be fed.

Each ekklesia, nuns signing the cross, seeing the best in me.

Then we arrived, the last stop on the line.

A tiny village nodding, grasping the cove.

Copper cliffs, fiery sand and the wide Libyan Sea.

Only I disembark and the bus driver laughs. I whine.

Have I been lost where I chose to rove?

I pray to the Greek gods for “oikos” for any fee.

Hermes would not have me wait but half an hour.

A man in a Datsun waves me down; I’m saved!

A flat, a meal, warmth, company - a thousand stars!

Night’s cool melody lulled me with its mystic power.

Quietly the new day dawns; the cliffs must be braved.

Scaled and descended, a lone red shore waits afar.

There, in stone circle, after washing in the tide,

At last, I laid my troubles and promised to be strong.

Rooted, naked, I forgot my fear, lost all my doubt.

Swore to sky and earth and self to never again hide.

Knew then, in that sacred cove, my spirit did belong.

The winding way to Matalá was vital for the blissful journey out.