Archive for November 17th, 2012




The buzzards stand on blistered rock

Where once defeated vessels burnt,

Two thousand summers’ storms and dust

Have left the empire’s vainest crushed.


Parades of egrets pass this way,

Their standing plumes like Ptolemy’s.

Where victors strut the herons halt,

And dart to pick the crusted salt.


The shallows of the gulf spread east

Where silver shoals entrap the sun,

And let it slip in golden shame,

As Cleopatra’s final flame.


The ochre soil and crumbled walls:

Once palace, temples, victory halls.


A Last Rose


The circling point of dark distils

Around a single opening flower.

Its petals touch the edge of night,

A fragile archway through the stars.


This moment in its simple pain:

A pointless mark, a questioned breath,

A finger tracing ‘round a rose,

Then pointing off towards the skies.


And in the mind the scent of springs:

From way before the start of time,

The buds unfurled before the words,

The roses bloomed before the end.


Around the hand the petals fall,

As memories lose their ties to Earth.