THE CHEESE MAKER
Your body leaned at thirty-three degrees,
From bent toes to the soft cheese you molded,
And you pressed a trickle of warm whey
Through the holes of the Toupi, on doubled hands,
As if to give life, to restart a heart,
And when you prostrated yourself again,
The line of your body was like Omar as Doctor Zhivago,
Mountain weary but sultry as an Eastern Prince,
And heavy gold hung from your neck
Over the open popper of your black denim,
Like the cobwebs that wafted
In the draft of a thermal above the cauldron,
Into which from time to time you poked a finger
To fish out specs of ash,
We sat, a crowd to keep you company
And watch you work,
Taking turns to stir like a Christmas Pud
The warming milk,
And while you shaped rounds of Misithra
We shared a bowl of hot curds and a bottle of Drambuie,
The night was over all too soon for me,
But I knew you would be out in the dark of the morning
On the scree with your sheep,
And sleep was as precious to you as your winter jacket,
So we said 'good night'
And I with purple potion on my eyes
Took you home to my bed,
Where I fantasized under the spell of Morpheus,
Until with the cold of morning
And the red crest of dawn,
I heard the call of Oberon.
Toupi - a small basket in which the cheese sets.
