it has been fifty years since
but in my memory I grow young
I walk along the village path
its soft meander through forest glade
we would sit, Byron and I
on ancient stone walls, smoothed
with time, cool in the shade
of the green canopy
in a land whose people looked
familiar, with names that sounded
like my own, I remember
chasing a flock of sheep that would
veer just out of my fingers' reach
straining, if I could touch
their coils of creamy wool, soft
tantalizingly close, I saw
a man leading his donkey
he gestured me aside and
warned me of its dangerous kick
there were trees of oranges and lemons
there was a peacock with a fan of plumes
feather eyes that would never blink
pine cones and snail shells we collected
a necklace for our mother, I had
grandparents and cousins and uncles and aunts
who reveled in my presence and
Esmeralda who pulled my hair and made me cry
we took a chicken up to the roof
and dropped it down the chimney
into the kitchen it squawked and squawked
oh my brother was a demon
he told me if I ate the gumdrop
I could have my grandfather's farm
I was dubious and suspicious,
it looked tampered with, but
I bit it anyway cause
I wanted the farm
inside was a clove of garlic,
he laughed the laughter of the wicked

and, in the distance
we could see the coast of Asia Minor,
as Achilles and Patroklos might have seen,
from a beach of black pebbles
each as round as a marble
in water as clear as teardrops...
Why am I here I ask myself?
Where is my brother Byron now?
How would it have been if we had stayed?
How could I have known that
the high point, the best times,
the purest joy and lasting memory
was held in the hands of a five year old boy?