My elder life was not complete,
Without a haven for retreat,
Away from gritty city street,
A home upon a ridge, in Crete.
A villa French could not compare,
Nor alpine meccas anywhere.
An isle of mountain, gorge and sea,
of endless skies — and healthy fare.
Sunrise outside our comfy lair,
White gulls, black crows, fly everywhere,
While sparrows streak for morning treats,
And swifts perform their diving feats.
At noon great piles of clouds pass by,
On updrafts hawks and eagles fly,
Streaked distant thunder storms grow near.
While palm fronds shake in winds that shear.
At night no city glare to bear,
Bright stars are spread throughout the sky.
Jet lights creep by, high in the air.
Red moons arise; our view is clear.
No distant land I’d like to see,
No other isle for my repaire,
For life, Crete’s where I care to be
And so I pen this eulogy.