Image: Photograph of Naxos, Greece, by Jon Corelis
The light in Andros is still the Attic light, but without its harsh comfort. Perhaps it is the presence of the sea, so close, that softens the urgency of its question. The light of Tinos is cleansing and mild with incense and sweet barley. On Paros the light will be seen to best advantage if you rest alone by an abandoned threshing floor and carefully compare its patient marble to the rich tawny grain stretching itself in the far fields under the gentle insistence of the seaborne breeze. The light of Delos is moist and firm. From the hill at the center at night the liquid stars do not seem so far off after all as they peacefully circle the pole, quite undisturbed by the racket of the frogs in their rocky ponds. The light of Mykonos is the light of childhood, simply itself. On Naxos the light looks a long way back. It is as if the brightness of all past days has left something of itself here before vanishing into the sea. The light of Santorini is breathless with expectation. From its fertile ash the vines draw up old fire into their small tight clusters, waiting. The promontories etch their endless hint against the sky, waiting. An ancient wind moans over the ocean, waiting. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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