We walked in the ashes of a city Ovens greened with ivy Olive jars full of stones. Game fluttered on cracked walls We stepped over the holes where box hedges Burned where they stood. Time stood still The olive sellers curled up cradled by ash Outside the brothel Soft arms grey and hot Breath drawn hard The bath-house full of glass and death masks. A silent garden that was a bakery A coach party where once they whispered to the gods. I soak the ashes from my feet.
A friend just shared some photos from Pompeii, and I remembered this poem I wrote in about 2005. I like to sit quietly at ancient sites and see what comes to me.
Words, words, words 