Listening for Nektarios
A shabby stone sarcophagus,
one long side cracked, inscriptions
blurred but not yet indecipherable,
nonetheless intact — it squatted
at the centre of the room.
Seated round it, half a dozen
widow-clad old women sewed
(a younger woman read
a small black book), and chatted.
Suddenly they paused, cocked heads
alert – ears hard against the tomb’s
stone lid – then flew up in a chorus,
wails and shrieks not mournful
but exultant, eerie, dying down
in moments, till they eased from frenzy
to a sewing circle once again.
This was repeated several times
while we stood there, ignored.
After the first I listened too, and strained
to catch what they could hear.
Once I thought there was the faintest
sound: a rustling, as claws upon the stone.
I wanted to say something about rats,
but you were quick to hustle me away.
