The Grave of Ilias Venezis A name carved on a tomb catches my eye— Ilias Venezis. It was here in this village the writer died, and we live on the lane named after him, a steep and crooked lane that becomes a torrent when it rains.                                          The tomb lid—surely there’s a better word?—the marble slab, is askew. Could be vandalism, could be someone monkeying with the bones.                                          Death here is only natural, and when the flesh has had time to fall away from the bone, men take the clean bones and pack them in a cheap crate and stack it in the listing shack, along with other boxes of bones, rakes and shovels and watering cans made from old olive oil tins.                     Rot is only natural—the sooner the better, after your soul is gone. Three years they give you, depending on the wetness of the winters, then they dig you up and toss you into the shack with the cock-eyed roof, where wooden crates are piled every which way, some broken, with bones spilling out of them.                     Bones here tend to go astray. Many end up in pastures next to the graveyard, along with flowers from plastic bouquets, and the red ribbons which identify the givers— the one word MOTHER FATHER SON DAUGHTER UNCLE or whatever painted on in clumsy gold letters.                     Some are tied now round the necks of sheep to hold the bells that bang and clunk as a young girl chases the herd. She laughs and says the silly sheep with their ribbons look like shag rugs ready to walk into a house and lay down on the floor to be Christmas presents.
	by Joe Smith