crunch village snow to kafenion
join in amiable chatter, coffee cup clatter
deft hands shuffle cards,
Georgia, bring wine, mezethes.
Tonight we gather with hovering swallows,
voice less valley,
for the blackened vigil.
Dawn mist rouses him,
flings open iced shutters
embraces chilled air.
He drives to town
past cemetery gate.
Valley twilight silence
shattered by Church bell.
Father asks why.
Sons, spades in hand, at cemetery gate
that screeches in protest.
They sit at the table on the balcony, stripping virgin vine stems of leaves, buds and stringy bits. Their voices, with the rustling of the sprouting pine needles, echo in the breeze across the platiea – until the final stem is stripped. Then the aromas of the boiling saucepan – aniseed, garlic, spring onion, olive oil dressing – that blends with the breeze.
Lucy Sussex gives public voice to the private thoughts, experiences and observations of selected nineteenth-century seafarers to the Australian colony. These seafarers kept a record of their voyage either as letters to loved ones left behind in England or in journal entries. The white glossy cover of Saltwater in the Ink, composed of a chair covered in red patterned fabric, a red quill, a laced decorated fan, pewter cup and barrel, is aesthetically appealing and invites exploration.
Let them burn! Let them burn!
Let them pay! Let them pay!
Grey suited stooped man carries red rose
Stadiou Street Wednesday 5 th May
ordered to work, union syndicates claim
Marfin Egnatia Bank a burnt out shell
molotov cocktails thrown