In Prvo Selo

In the tradition of the place, once or more a summer,

We return to our evergreen Zrnovo door

And find hung, leant or left round the bronzed handle

Or smoothed limestone threshold, some ghost-token

Of a visitor - a bow of straw, or sheer headscarf,

Or terrace cushion, or wildflower or bough plucked

Nearby at a moment's notice. Sometimes, too, a gift

Materializes. Some tomatoes perhaps, or grappa

In a second-hand bottle, maybe a book or compote,

Lavender and oregano out of the adjacent fields,

Small cakes from a neighbour’s kitchen. And if

Merely a folded piece of paper, always with neither

Name nor note. Thus out of this village silence

Immemorial as Anonymous, you come to realise

You're expected to intuit whoever it might have been

Who wished or needed seeing you at the dog day's

Missed periphery. Though once in a blue moon too,

The gift-giver or visit, like a ghost guested all summer,

Asked after, stays unknown despite the guesswork.