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!


Roger Green


6th - 8th October 2016

Copyright Studio Viriditas Productions, 2016


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