Does the sea mean so much to him? Is it his woman?
As I watch the arrival of boats in the bay, the unloading at the dock, I keep remembering his brown face.
P
The rains have begun.
They flood across the mosaic floor of the courtyard, draining noisily.
I am weaving a scarf, very white, light in weight, my seat a strip of rawhide on four pegs.
Around me the girls sit and chatter. Heptha and Myra weave together, working at one loom, whispering. The rain and wind come together over the house. Laughing secretly, Atthis and Gyrinno dash off, padding through the rain, across the court.
Kleis unwinds my ball of thread and keeps paying it out slowly, rhythmically, her hands in time to a song she is humming to herself.
The white wool is restful. I can weave nothingness or I can weave in my whole past, the sea, my house, the cliffs, the trees.
My fingers are Phaon’s.