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Tourist

Rod Moran

Mar 01 2010

0 mins

In the dark ice-clad mountains
Above Limassol, a storm brewed.
It was the colour of History.
The wind’s edge was serrated,
With variegated pennants fluttering,
Clouds massed like an Order of Battle.
In broken Greek I requested
A cup of their best Turkish coffee.
The waiter, eyes black as Cypriot wine,
Left—and did not return.

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