"To go to Jvari (with apologies to Adam Zagajewski)"

"To go to Jvari (with apologies to Adam Zagajewski)  

To go to Jvari, which direction, which road,  

to go to Jvari in the spring, in the fall,  

when second-hand cars start out renewed.  

But only if it does exist, not just a ghost from guide books and internet sites;  

if signposts, standing to attention,  

whisper in Russian, in Georgian- that strange unique invented alphabet. 

The sharpness of the light, the clear sky around Jvari,  

the grassy knoll leading up to it;  

what hissing sliding snakes have shot through this path;  

and in the place of a pavement café under an awning,  

souvenir stalls offering identical trinkets that will disintegrate still today;  

stiff felted caps in beige and brown, overstitched and too round;  

and images of the church.  

A WHO UNESCO site, built fifteen hundred years ago of exposed solid amber stone,  

surprisingly tall and narrow within,  

capped by a compact vaulted dome – 

unsupported by flying buttresses  

which lie centuries into the future-  

and purposefully engraved on the eastern façade with bizarre, uneven donor portraits. 

The still icons hang self-contained within, too small on the endless walls,  

and timeless, dateless, shiny and bright;  

old originals or modern copies?  

Impossible to judge. 

To go to Jvari, to set off on this pilgrimage,  

to get into the grey Range Rover,  

4-wheel drive buffering us on the potholed roads.  

Consider this path trodden by monks sailing by like flapping ravens,  

in rain and sleet, hail and wind, in the burning blaze of high summer,  

heads down in the airless too bright glare, nowhere to shelter, nowhere to hide;  

decade after decade, joiners and leavers  

treading this same lane from monastery to old destination church,  

singly and jointly,  

black hoods and brown beards,  

suspicious eyes pointing at the godless tourists. 

And the vista below! 

the confluence of lazy green rivers, Aragvi and Kura,  

creating a corner for the ancient capital Mtskheta to nestle in  

and thrust up its outsized patched-about Cathedral  

where silent grumpy priests scan visitors’ clothes- their security check-  

imposing a purple fabric square as skirt or shawl  

to conceal a long list of unwelcome sights such as shoulders, knees, bare heads;  

and hawk-like, enforce No Photography.  

A palimpsest reality.  

The gardens continue sprouting their ancient roses, indifferent,  

and the birds squawk and dart unawares.  

And the sudden, surprising reconnect of Hava Nagila (after Kalinka)  

from the accordionist- he’s done it before!  

Israelis respond, delighted,  

with a hora on the tarmac by their bus. "