Deva Victrix

A shrine carved
from rock, her face –
now flesh molded by wind,
by years –
still worthy of worship,
eyes upon

her war, upon yours,
your magic song on the wind that carves….

(A lean cheek, — a blue eye, and sunken, — an unquestionable spirit, — )

the last time… you moaned that song,
then
sighed, quieter
then…
silence,
now this intermittent jazz, which moves
and fades… leave me
desperate
for more, for
small words, this
dismissive,
that heart…

(are you Roman, then, Britain –
something else, darker eyed…
ancient soul
…lands owed to you in Viroconium
by some old hill fort fling… what
history forms you!)

Your river murmurs beneath you
…Dee… who conquered
the conquerors,
made Deva Victrix
made
place for goddesses
foreign and familiar.

I touch your hair,
spread across the nodes between us,
flowing like water across transatlanean cables,
from ancient, holy shores.

 

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, History, Poem, poetry, Writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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