(Plovdiv, Bulgaria, 1963)

A warm autumn morning. We climbed the hill
Where Romans and Thracians had left their mark.
We danced and sang, while the day turned dark
For the Moon was eating the Sun:  it grew chill.

Ancient rhythms throbbed through our song.
This is Orpheus’ country: to Death he sang.
To his old measures our dance steps rang.
It was cold and dark – for who knows how long?

The Moon moved on, and a slice of the sun
Grew wider: would its light banish the grey?
Then the cocks started to crow: it was day!
We picked up our lives and carried on.

Such memories cannot be captured in rhyme:
That was eternity. This is time.