IN THE PROVINCES 5 Comments

(near Aquincum)


As though brushed by the cart of a fleeing settler,
The dead blackbird lay on the Roman road, in tatters.

One who was always there, always indifferent, the wind
Had hoisted a black sail out of the wings.

And that's how you spotted her from afar, knocked aside
By the marauding hordes, your sister pinned now to the earth.

Whether Dacians or Huns, Mongol ponies or Vespas -
She had always been a cross distraction from the proximity of her nest.

And that was it. No protracted death agonies.
The poor diva had only to lay herself down

On dusty stone slabs then, or damp asphalt now.
People were forever migrating, and their roads generally attended by danger.
...
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