Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter



I have reluctantly washed Crete
From my skin and dropped
The dust of travelling into the
Bin in the room’s centre, such
Is the loss of leaving.

In dreams, my land is different;
Hills and seas and mountains,
Heat and smiles and closeness,
And the courage and funds to
Change what is my daily.

In my phone, the pictures move
Even when I sleep; the blue, the
Grey, the parched, the song of
Cicadas in the graveyard, the
Rumble of the sea; content.

I have washed the island from
My aging longing body, and
Slept behind the desk, yet still
I ache for the olives and the
Jagged language and alphabet.

I cannot wash this place
From my heart.

R 14.07.2023

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