The Green Gatherers at Sounion

Three old women, draped in black,

cross themselves and bow, K-rees-to,

just outside Poseidon's temple,

then part and hunch along like crows

bent on a solemn search for supper.

Each one parts her grasses, peering,

moving, parting, peering, pulling,

slowly filling her apron, spilling it

over and over onto the common pile.

Working different parts of the maze,

they do not talk or pay any mind

to the buzzing infestation of tourists.

Like the same old shepherds, same old sheep,

these are at work the same as their mothers:

grasses for salad with olives and feta,

grasses for boiling to go with the lamb,

grasses for selling. Grasses are threading

mothers like beads who thread thousands of years.

They will never leave by ship, have never

gone. They will never throw themselves

over and down the long cliffs to the

sea, breaking on points of stone;

nor read themselves into an epic poem.

They'll thank whatever gods may be

before they wilt; and dip and tilt,

leaving their wake in green, three old

black sails. So the white news prevails.