Eddies of Love

For my beloved:

I do not question. Instead, I thank you for such sublime, abandoned moments outside of ordinary space/time where we become consummately entwined. 


The Drowned Village.

In memory of the sunken village of Σφεντυλι, a tribute in pictoral form, photographed in Summer 2014. 

It was an amazing trip! A hot early summer’s (June I think) day, I was on my break and I had decided to take a scooter ride up to the mountains. I took a detour down the road to the village as it occured to me that I had never been there before and fancied a new experience, also to see the village before it dissapreared “forever” under the water. 

The frogs chorus as I approached the lake was deafening! I got off the scooter and just sat there soaking up the atmosphere for a while before heading up the old road towards the village on foot. 

It wouldn’t be long before the village would be lost under the resevoir that was being constructed. Just beyond the village of ποταμιες and before the beautiful village of Αβγού on the road to Καστελι lay this little village. It had been evacuated long ago, the local people paid to leave their homes. However it was not willingly they left. The loss of the village, the beloved streets and homes that had nurtured generations of people who had grown up and lived out their lives there. There were still at the time I visited sneaking around with my camera, a couple of people still living there, refusing to leave, their black flags gently fluttering in the breeze, their last stand of defiance against what would only be inevitable.

It was such an eerie feeling walking around the deserted streets and houses. It was like people had left in great haste, leaving their posessions behind. I felt the ghosts and spirits of the older generations and their ancestral dead swirling cooly around me, as if they knew what was about to befall the place. The air was cool but stifling with their presence. There were odd moments of absolute stillness, stifling in the heat, the sweat trickling down my neck and back along with the fingers of the ghosts, contrasted with old whispered memories tumbling down the empty streets, upon a fluttering leaf or a stirring breeze. 

Today you see nothing there, just the lake. And that which is reflected back from its surface.

This line below sums up the experience for me perfectly: 

“There is  no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe 

Rest in peace, Σφεντυλι.

Letters To The Dead.

My words, on wings they fly as they soar to reach  you. 
They seek you my Lady, as my heart seeks you. I have never forgotten you. 

My love for you burns, sometimes it is as gentle as embers glowing in the hearth fire, sometimes it rages, the flames soaring high, they engulf my very being and burn me alive. My whole, all that I am, yearns for you, burns for you, holds that fire for you.
My Lady, my Sister, my Lady of the Cloth, my Lady of the Veil.

I know your presence when I feel that peace, your love cooling and soothing. You surround me and quenche me. You are ice to my fire. Together we blend into cool flowing waters; deep peace from the Veil you bring to me, my Lady.

You know who you are, of whom I write, to whom I write. My beloved teacher and guide. But I shall not speak here your name. Your name I whisper, your name is formed on my lips in prayer, in the silent midnight hours. 

Only know my Lady, my heart is yours, and that the day will come when I will bring flowers to your grave. And I will sit beside you, where your body lies. I know my Lady, there you do not reside, but as a pilgrim I will come, in honour of your life.

Until that time, let your love give birth to mine, let your words give birth to mine…let us flow together entwined…

…let my words fly on wings as they soar to reach you…