Platea 1866
Divides two sections of the mix
That is Chania. Its southern end,
Kidonias, is where locals spend
Their hard-earned cash in little shops
On side streets where the traffic stops
To let old ladies cross the road,
Their black-clad backs all bent and bowed,
A plastic bag in each gnarled hand.
Outside the cafe’s, youngsters stand
And take the time to talk and joke
While sipping their frappé or Coke.
Quite different from the northern part
Of “1866”, the start
Of tourist Chania, signs for trips
To Balos, or for snorkelling ships.
And what’s on sale is different too
A hundred T-shirts here on view
Where Chalidon, on down the hill
Towards the port, is never still.
A swirling flow of flip-flopped feet
And hats and caps across the street,
German, Spanish, Swedish, Dutch
All using English “It’s how much?”
They come by bus and it’s a shame
That so few wonder “why the name?”
When rushing from or to KTEL
For if they did, they’d pause a spell
To stroll a little in the square
And see the many statues there
Of heroes with their great moustaches,
Swords and pistols in their sashes.
But on the other hand I guess
It’s why it has its peacefulness.
