There seems to be a conspiracy
To erase the summer from the map;
From July until October
There’s just an empty gap.
Trying to reconstruct the summer
Is like collecting water in a sieve -
No one is telling what happened,
Nobody has information to give.
One per says it was busy,
Another says it was not.
One person says it was bloody cold,
Another, it was fucking hot.
The sea was delicious to swim in,
Buoyant and calm and clean;
Or, in another version,
The filthiest ever seen,
With oil-slicks and effluent,
All manner of froth and scum.
Skoupidhia, and jellyfish
That paralyse your bum.
Nobody has any money,
Nobody has any job;
Or else there was lots of employment
Financed by stinking rich nobs.
House were selling like Flora’s cakes
And all for exorbitant prices,
Hydra was bucking the trend.
Crisis? What crisis?
No one was buying houses,
Families were on income support.
Of course there’s a bloody crisis,
Look at the empty chairs in the port.
Tried listening to the news
To see if that would give a clue,
But the reporters on the wireless
Are in the conspiracy too.
Doo-Noo-Too, khreos, working group,
Evro, financial black holes,
Apergia, Nea Dimokratia,
Potahmi, capital controls,
Pension, refugees, ENFIA,
Syriza, Mbrexit, Memorandum,
Merkel, Tsipras, Mitsotakis,
The broadcast words at random.
One fact alone emerges,
Again we cried and laughed and cried,
Some virtue has leaked from the island:
Marianne has died.
Everything else is conjecture,
Hypothesis, speculation, rumour;
The only thing to rely on
Is a redeeming sense of humour.
Found a leaflet on the beach
That has a misprint in it;
Hydra, it said in English,
Is the epitome of “chic”.
Some mistake there, surely.
Is it necessary to explain
Why one of the longest streets here
Is known as Donkey Shit Lane?
The road to the Pyrofani
Is sometimes call Crazy Street -
There’s a reason for that too,
It’s where all the nutters meet.
Everyone here is affected,
From the Mayor with his helicopter pad
To the Argentinians who sailed here
In the good ship Libertad,
From Leonard Cohen fanatics
To Johnston devotees;
From donkey conference delegates
To three-island Japanese,
From the so-called art practitioners
Who worship installation,
To the Hydra ecologists who
Believe in suburbanisation,
Not to mention the man with a small guitar,
Wearing a cardboard hat,
Pan rowed himself round the harbour -
The Owl and the Pussycat;
Or us secure in our asylum -
Asylum-seekers is what we are,
Looking for a refuge
From some imaginary war.
Is the Pyrofani part of the conspiracy?
Does it really exist?
Or is it a midsummer night’s dream
That we never actually missed?
Is Theo a kind of spirit,
Half satyr, half magician?
Or is her an ordinary person,
A cook and an electrician?
We have all winder to ponder
These questions that I’m posing.
Meanwhile what may be the Pryrofani
Seems to be closing.
Theo appears to be leaving.
The future’s looking murky.
But, even if the Last Trump sounds,
May we not have to suffer cold Turkey!
6th - 8th October 2016
Copyright Studio Viriditas Productions, 2016