Galilee Guesthouse

Coffee and leather armchairs, candlelit,nCard-playing in corners, glassware, jumping flamesnIn open fire places. Drinks to hand we sitnWatching the beards and spectacles at games.

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Mount Carmel wine. The candlelightnIs gold and silver points on polished glasses.nWall ornaments, china, tablewarenThe keepers of the passes.

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Comfort. Mozart somewhere. A warm roomnIn a pleasant club-land scene.nThe candle flame jumps before the facesnOf the card-players dressed in green.

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A click of cards, a murmuring of voices,nA certain heightened feeling in this place.nCold wind outside. Here, well warmed and tendednWe watch each player’s face.

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A snowy wind from hills of stone and mud.nWe chatter with liqueurs, lingering thereon.nThe candles flicker to the distant thudnOf guns in Lebanon.

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No ambiguities, no ounce of doubtnIn this Now at least, this moment pinned,nGold and silver bubbles, thin bands of steelnWith candles in the wind.