Beyond the barrelsquat
silo windmills
of crumblegray stone
are the narrow white drowsy caféd streets of Muğla asleep,
its stoney dockless
harbor glimpsing still emerald waters clear and clean reflecting overhead leaves of trees and red pinkish hybiscus in the sun, holy lavender
yardtrees of blooming
leaf and bleached white short homes hugging useless fence with old
woodclappered
window shutters, the
far yet close cliff hills
deep in green and unclimbable steep of distant joys beneath the brightened white of an anciently young long still sun.
