after C P Cafavy
Leave me no photographs, leave me nothing
but a quick note scribbled in black biro
on a memo pad, or if you insist,
the postcard from Ithaca: ‘Sun woke us
early, went diving, caught an octopus.’
I remember Ithaca, arriving
without sleep on the ferry, the old sand
and olive trees with nothing to sell me.
Two hands on this postcard, an unmatched pair,
but the same sure, agile cross to the T.
This postcard: dog-eared, gloss-coated sea cracked,
pine trees bleached yellow, two greetings inscribed
in pale ballpoint ink over-franked ‘Airmail’
indenting the card, strong enough to read.
Matthew John Williams