Rome

Ancient

The stones remain,

Silent witnesses, ever;

Quiet in the morning sun,

Or in the sunset twilight

As the traffic roars.

The people pass,

Looking but never seeing,

Never stopping or pausing

To feel the past

Seeping out of the land,

From the trees, the ancient

Shapes of the trees,

Where parrots chatter,

And seagulls perch,

Or soar in the golden

Airs above.

Colosseum

This seems to be a monument

To all that is wrong

With "civilisation".

The pain, the shame,

The suffering, humiliation

And death seep out

From every stone,

And turn the core of my being

Into a sick knot, inside.

This civilised Western world

Of ours - you can keep it.

"Our animal nature"

We call it.

But I ask -

What other creature

Has ever killed its own kind

Like this?

This is a place

Where I do not belong.

Ghosts

If you listen carefully

To the voice of your soul,

Can you hear the crowd's roar

Echoing down the years,

The wild roar of people

Who are hungry to see

Your blood?

Can you feel the fear,

And the sweat in your palms,

Sense the dark tunnel

With the fearful,

Hideous light at the end,

That will bring you out

Before the eyes of that crowd,

An object, a spectacle,

A diversion in the game?

Can you feel

The sickness in your stomach,

The sickness in your heart,

The sickness in your soul?

Do you want to run and hide,

While the slavers drive you on,

On, On, On…

Each slow step reaching out

Tentacles of fear into Eternity,

Each slow step taking you up

Into the bright sun's glare outside?

San Clemente

In the cloister it is nearly dark,

Lemon leaves scent the evening air,

The sky is pink,

And peach, and blue,

A candle burns,

The traffic roars

Far away, outside.

Here in my heart, it is still.

Late Afternoon Palazzo

All I remember are the wooden floors,

The polished, smooth grain,

Stretching down the corridor,

The sunbeams slanting through the dust,

The lemon and orange trees

On the terrace, the peace,

The timeless, silent peace

Of the place, and the paintings

On the walls.

Ostia Antica

Anemones shining, nodding,

Shimmering, bright pink

In the sun,

Dark centres glowing;

Tiny daffodils, daisies;

Wind in the pine trees blowing.

The red bricks ruined, at peace,

Green grass growing,

Where once traders called,

Women walked, children played.

And now the tall trees stand,

Pinecones falling to the ground,

While the parrots screech,

And the cats prowl,

Or lie in the spaces

Between…

Then and now, now and then,

The past as fluid

As their fleeting forms,

Flickering, flitting

Between the shadows

In the heat of the midday sun.

Flowers (Ostia Antica)

The flowers grow,

As fragile as the shades

Of the past

That glide among the stones.

Silken petals fluttering

In the breeze

From the sea.

Memories

Flowers there were there,

Small, beautiful,

Nestling among the stones

In the warm spring sun;

Tiny narcissi, pink anemones,

Outliving all the wealth

That dwelt there;

Like flowers on the grave,

Halloing the unholy,

Bringing peace at the end

Of a restless story,

Helping us fade

Back into the land.

Bright petals shining,

Heads nodding,

In the pine-scented

Breeze from the sea.

To my daughter (San Paulo fuori Muri, Ostia)

My elegant girl,

You fell in love

With the past today,

Lived it, breathed it,

Walked in awe

Between it and now -

Hands touching,

Eyes embracing all

That was new,

And filled with beauty;

Putting new memories

In your soul

That will live in you

Through the grey mists of time;

Laying in a harvest

As store for years far away.

A golden church,

A golden afternoon,

The wind in the trees

On a golden day.

Dusk in Rome

I sat in the twilight

And bathed in the sensuous,

Sensual colour, smell, movement

Of the city at that magical hour.

Someone else sat with me,

Quietly by my side,

Another self, from another time,

A girl of twenty three,

Footloose and fancy free,

Revelling in, immersed in,

At one with

The me that sat there,

And with the city around.

Friday Night in Rome

Words cannot catch the beauty

Of the gulls swooping

In the floodlit twilight,

The domes of the churches

Against the sunset sky,

The rich fullness

Of the layers of time,

One upon the other,

Woven together in their eternal dance,

Nor the semi-dark intimacy

Of the narrow streets,

Doorways lit, enticing smells

Inviting you in, to share

A meal together,

Celebrating one rich drop

In memory's ocean waves.

They cannot catch

The perfect peace on the face

Of the old violinist

Scraping out his notes

On the late-night tram stop,

Looking with Love

At the face of my little son,

Who stood caught in a memory

From the future,

Transfixed by the music

In the Now that will

One day be Then.

Violinist

Your face was beautiful,

Moved by your music,

As the traffic rushed by

In the cool of the night.

A violin haunting

The lonely lamp-lit streets

As life flowed by.

Your old face was beautiful,

And etched itself

Into my soul

As you played:

The essence of a new

Time of Becoming

That flows already

Beyond recall.

Gulls at the Capitoline

Outside the museum

There was ballet

In the air.

Sky velvet-blue of early night,

Floodlit by the lights

On the marble columns below.

But above, danced the gulls,

White against blue,

Bright white,

Lit up from beneath,

Swooping, soaring, gently

In the first breaths

Of the night.

Starlings at Termini

Beyond the bus,

As we squeezed our way out,

Was the peachy sky,

A crescent moon,

And a billowing silken

Rippling ribbon of birds,

Swerving, swooping, sweeping

In a dance

So beautifully choreographed

It took the breath away,

Twisting, turning, waving;

Separate each,

Yet wholly one.

Yes, that is the Dance of Life.