You climbed with me the donkey track, to Manolátes square,
And we saw the bougainvillaea blooming there.
We would buy bright red tomatoes and plump green olives too.
Then we’d drink Samena Golden, sweet as dew
From the solitary snow-white church, which stands beyond the crest,
You could see the blue Aegean to the west.
We could hear the song of nightingales rising from below,
As the sun beat down on vineyards row on row.
Then in a small taverna, by the fountain in the square,
We’d sit sipping on our ouzo without care.
We’d eat and drink, and dance and sing, until the sun retired,
Then creep off softly, to the studio we’d hired.
We lay one night in single cots upon a tiled floor,
With an uninvited lizard by the door.
Through open shutters watched the stars, then saw an owl in flight,
And we laughed at braying donkeys in the night.
Do you recall that sweet perfume, which greeted us on waking?
Of coffee beans? And olive-bread fresh baking?
Then taking breakfast in the sun, beneath a lemon tree,
Eating bread and honey, high above the sea.
We heard the loud ‘Yasou’ of children, on their way to school,
And the soft plip-drip of water in a pool.
Then arm in arm through olive groves, to find Kokkari town,
Taking dusty tracks and footpaths twisting down.
How many years ago was that, when you and I were there?
Can you smell the scent of pine trees on the air?
Do you hear the faint bouzouki as Vangelis sings along?
Do you hear “Come back to Samos” in his song?
Let’s run away to Samos Isle, some thousand miles away,
To laugh and live and love again, as we did yesterday.
To see the hills and feel the sun, shine warm upon our face,
And there we’ll find contentment, in that sweet Grecian place.