Poem: The Slightest Touch of Eternity

Augustans stairs BW.JPG

The Slightest Touch of Eternity

You touch the stones.
Your fingers feel the roughness of two thousand years.

You imagine him, Ceasar Augustus, walking down,
the emperor himself, fresh from creating a new world,

grey-haired now, and stooped, still imperious,
confident in a life of boldness to see him through in those last days.

You touch the stones.
Your fingers drag slowly over the roughness, waiting

for the seeping of energy that must certainly be there,
a current of power more firm than stone,

a thing that outlasts the death of both men and empires,
the slightest touch of eternity.

About this poem. 

The picture is of the stairs in what remains of Ceasar Augustus’ house in Rome, on Palpatine Hill, above the forum, and the coliseum.

I have around my house small stones, pieces of bricks, rubble from castles and monasteries across Europe, picked up off the ground.  For me, there is an energy in them, energy of those times and places and people. I know it is fanciful. I know it is not true.

But I like the thought.

Tom

 

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