By Jean Tuomey
I will always remember the village
whose name I forget, nestled
high in the Troodos mountains.
Tourists,
without a map or any Greek.
We dawdled by ramshackle shops,
past the café where men played Tavli,
a sweet scent luring
us towards a tree lined lane.
Not being thieves but fond of fruit,
we filled four fists
from an overhanging branch.
I peel the memory with zest -
juice trickling down
our tanned hands,
ambered tongues,
stained smiles,
a picture, permanent
as a tattoo.