I dared not hope too hard for what a Poetry Retreat would mean, for me, who can only shyly call myself a writer and certainly not (yet?) a poet. I had found such inspiration before in Greece, to find the stories, the images, the breath, the song … and so the day unfolded.
Guided by our mentor, the words and images are flowing and my little book is singing with some promise of poetry, or song. Who knows? To have this place, its breadth of sky and sea, to have the time to listen, to walk, to touch the ancient stone and unfurl from the inside out… gestures flowing like birds wheeling high above, measuring the images in free form, journeying through time to watch the sun melt into the ocean … transforming to elliptical half moon then temple, then nothing but the echo on my retina of a dancing ball.
We talk, we laugh, we share our stories. We fall about at the punch line. I turn with love to the page. Hello friend. You helped me to this dream.