by Florence Murry

In this whitewashed village black and white cats meow at my feet. There is no way I’m going to make Lindos, Acropolis, no way the citadel’s dry stone walls, no way the view to the sea. It’s 10℃. A brick bench against my legs I try to remember why I came here. Brown hills want to pry me free but I begin the steep one-way road that leads to the highway. Midway I turn around Pillars rise up still in blue sky calling me to try again. I turn away, breathe the olive tree’s dry wood scent and carry on. At the top I  find a roadside cafe, welcome the plastic chair, catch my breath, wrap my fingers around a hot coffee and rest my thighs. A blue and white cloth blows in a cool December breeze.

Florence Murry is the author of Last Run Before Sunset. Her poems have appeared in Pinch, Atlanta Review, Slipstream Press, Magazine, Off the Coast, Bluestem Magazine, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and others. Florence lives in Southern California with her husband and two cats. Her website is florencemurrywriter.com.