On the rocky shores of the Aegean the white stone steps cascade, down into the salt water and up to a cool grassy glade punctuated by silver birch, soft pine and ionic columns shouldering the night sky.
A cracked stone tablet reads ‘Welcome Traveler’ in Greek.
Alabaster statuettes on pedestals of Khan, King, Gascoigne, Hemingway and Freeman; busts of Budd, Best, Bradman, and Baggio and Fangio all flicker in the waving lights from the hanging golden lanterns.
Ancient Persian rugs flatten pools in the whispering grass, silver chalices brim with the wondering, wandering grass.
There’s a bleached driftwood bar with silver nails and verdigris copper carte de jour and a cave that reaches through the ages to bring us every wonderful shade of elixir ambrosia straight from the poisoned tree of life; scrumpy anyone, calvados?
Sprigs of lavender adorn the birches and twigs of thyme burn slowly in the grate.
Timeless veils of immortal ephemera parade, serenade; our ghosts of Marley, Morrisey, Clarke and Morrison, Cave, Buckley and Bob; a gift from Yortubus, god of context.
Pseuds’ gather like shadows in the breeze, banter, bark and bray, inspiring, exhaling.
Haggling for hearsay with the echoes of Camus, Ezekiel, Thomas and Chief Dan George…