from Latin ascendere: to rise. Ah! – worn down Delos, you lie in the late sun, comatose. A million tourists have zoomed in with their ipads and cameras
to snap your soul. At the end of the hottest summer, as hotels and tavernas start to close, we return, climb, rise slowly through burnt poppies, thistles,
parched grass. Apollo, Sol, Medicus, I would honour you but after two thousand years only the lizards remain loyal, your darting sentinels, as the eye of civilisation blurs.
At the top of the sacred moutain I gaze far across blue shimmering water-tracks to the ancient past: Paros, Naxos, Crete. And can envisage no future, no ascent,
no over-arching light. So I stack three stones: prayer to no god on wind-scarred rocks, self-perplexing aporia.