by Mary Salter

Sheer red rock
Furrowed and weathered bare
Climbs out of a navy sea.
Ancient volcanic rim
Circles darkly on a
Forever blue sky
While curved shores
Spread like flared skirts
Hiding
Her fiery centre.

Tumbling down now,
Over this ancient caldera,
White, azure, and teal-roofed hotels
Cling to myriad paths,
Steep-stepped and pebbled.
Structures cover, protect and disguise

This quirk
Of Atlantean myth
Dissembling an aura
Of harmony and peace.

Who knows when,
Upon what dictate
Of future fate will pressure build
And burst
Shattering land
And boiling seas
Once more?

Almost impossible
To conceive
The explosive tumult
Catapulting the island
Into
Its present incarnation.

Only a screed of black
Frilling the sands
Hints
At the white-hot origins
Of this holiday isle.