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,
sighed, quieter
now this intermittent jazz, which moves
and fades… leave me
for more, for
small words, this
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
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.



About Martin

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s