Malia: Profitas Elias Once An Old Minoan Hill Shrine Poem by Richard Blanch

He strides up the hill in the morning sun
Earrings, armlets glint in crystal and bronze. The path is red
Will be searing to the touch later.
He blows a double-pipe, a lemon-sharp sound
Echoing down thirty thousand months to where
I sit on the hot sandstone, burning noon.
Here have sat so many plump plush tourist
Bottoms, lightly sweating; and, before,
Sat earth a million days; and before earth
Sat, kilted, his brown buttocks. Rest beneath
The shrine. Looking back through clear air
To his people, sex and archaeology mix:
Bare breasts and codpieces; black locks waist-long;
Eyes purpled, raised to hill tops where goats roam,
Darkened down caves, recording butterflies
And birds, looking for a She - or many.
Can I think llke that? And what was like that
Anyway?