The dolphins seemed unfriendly
No sooner had we landed when, at a loss,
we struck out for the islands. not by airplane –
wheels on the shallows – but in the drink, again
cast off into the Med, each a Pangloss –
ebulliance deranged – sailed for Paxos,
island of the shotgun, Easter rain
whose white chalk gulleys and a firefly lane
lit us home through the olive alleys, moss.
O’Hara was right to remind us of Pan,
the great god Pan, last seen somewhere near
the isthmus maybe down from Ithaca,
in the sparesness of the Archipelago:
I have to go there, but the boat’s tossed so, I can
not swim a stroke: the dolphins, oh! the medusa approach.
Some trouble with the ol'sonnets here, but once you get into the running of them... it's almost okay to watch a line head off into the blueyonder..