It prompted the following poem.
Two kilometres lie between the village on the hill
and the coastal strip where they strip
and turn and burn acres of flesh a worrying pink
colour-matched to the inflatables on display
outside the tourist shops.
In the village soft pink flowers against pink walls.
Over-ripe lemons lie rotting on the ground.
An insect hums.
Only a current of air moves through these empty homes
and an orange butterfly.
The bare bones of old stonework glimpsed
through fig and walnut, peach and almond trees.
Silence has fallen like enchantment
on this village on the hill
and it is still
only two kilometres from the coastal strip.
On this trip nothing much had changed, this doorway had been repainted, a few more houses are occupied, but the gates to the church yard were locked, presumably because the bell tower is no longer safe, and the houses that remain unoccupied are in an ever more fragile state.
I think it's a beautiful place.