Romans were here
in these forested hills
lived and killed
built and loved
and left their shoes
fibulae spear-heads
Their trash they threw
down disused wells
water run dry choked
with the meaning
of civilization
one by one we retrieve
nails horse-bits broken
leather thongs those
second-century things
whose uses we can only
reconstruct
Romans are gone
and here I peer into
my own disused well
pondering muddy trickle
wondering what have I
to throw down this well
what have I to save
polish preserve present
like fine Samian ware?
Graceful Press Poetry 