Cold in Corfu
Deep in its core the villa is cold,
each beam, each rug, each chair
exudes the chilling dampness
of a winter of salt-laden air.
Cards are dealt and matchsticks bet
in an eerie flickering light
then the power fails completely
and we start our first damp night.
A few days later Joe is not well
ears ache, a temperature rages
so we track down the local doctor
from the welcome file's sticky pages.
Leaving behind the concrete shore
white chairs and bright new bars
we wind our way up through olive groves
waist-high with fragrant flowers.
The old town lies on a shady ridge
there's a square where people meet
we park by a bakery, out of its door
drifts a wonderful yeasty heat.
We ask where to find the doctor
a young man shows us the place
the doctor wears jeans and takes Joe on his knee
a broad smile on his strong brown face.
"Oh yes, a nasty infection,"
he finds tablets, a bottle and spoon
"No, I don't charge for treating a child
let me know if he's not better soon."
But Joe is in no hurry to leave
this room or its comfy host
so we bribe him with promise of fresh bread rolls
and go back to our place on the coast.
Chrissie Williams, April 2004