She sits in a side street so narrow I doubt even a compact car could pass.
She is as quiet as the village or indeed as the mountain which looms overhead
Like many women I have seen in the villages she is dressed in black. A plain black dress, black hose, flat sensible shoes and gray hair pulled into a bun, low at the back of the head.
She sits unmoving as I come toward her in this narrow place.
Her face is weathered and lined and her eyes sunken deep into the sockets.
As I wonder if she has lost her sight, she turns her head to watch me pass.
The eyes are the blue of the water I swam in earlier in the day.
Like the shores along the deep sea which surround this island home, her face is rugged, cragged and worn.
Her joys and sorrows, the stories that have made up her life are etched deep.
The sparks of blue are steel and her hair is not gray but flint.
In those eyes a fire of strength and independence still burns brightly.
I am startled by the strange beauty and long to capture it on film.
She dismisses my clumsy request with a backhanded gesture of her outstretched arm.
I am not of her world and I am dismissed.
I leave her there under the shadow of the mountain.
Her thoughts untold fathoms and as mysterious as the ocean depths.
She is as quiet as the village or indeed as the mountain which looms overhead
Like many women I have seen in the villages she is dressed in black. A plain black dress, black hose, flat sensible shoes and gray hair pulled into a bun, low at the back of the head.
She sits unmoving as I come toward her in this narrow place.
Her face is weathered and lined and her eyes sunken deep into the sockets.
As I wonder if she has lost her sight, she turns her head to watch me pass.
The eyes are the blue of the water I swam in earlier in the day.
Like the shores along the deep sea which surround this island home, her face is rugged, cragged and worn.
Her joys and sorrows, the stories that have made up her life are etched deep.
The sparks of blue are steel and her hair is not gray but flint.
In those eyes a fire of strength and independence still burns brightly.
I am startled by the strange beauty and long to capture it on film.
She dismisses my clumsy request with a backhanded gesture of her outstretched arm.
I am not of her world and I am dismissed.
I leave her there under the shadow of the mountain.
Her thoughts untold fathoms and as mysterious as the ocean depths.
I see many of her soul sisters on this island and later learn of the WWII resistance and the Nazi retribution as a result. I am stunned by the strength these women show. Not in the shallow “Me too” expression currently in vogue. It is a strength I am happy I have never had to experience. A strength that serves beyond the individual. A strength of a nations soul bound to the stone and mountains it grows on.
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