Ostia Antica
This is a place of apparitions:
a place of floating scenes of ancient life.
It is a history, place, and purpose lost.
Made of red brick cemented to red brick
of still remaining homes for
those that walk there forever.
Stumbling down the Roman road
with scant eye drawn down
row after row of structures
bereft of roofs, built
one together sharing thick walls
side-by-side
as plotted and straight
as a Jeffersonian section.
Latin was read on
the steps of a temple of grass
under the watch of two Roman
statues with knowing eyes
and pursed lips.
Yet I was drawn to
the rows of red brick where
I could hear the cries of babies,
the laugh of children playing,
felt the push of moving crowds
in narrow streets.
Later I heard the shouts
of those with cups of wine,
gambling, and cheering into the night.
I saw streets lit with torches,
the flicker of oil lamps,
and dark streets riven
with the light of the moon.
Lost there I wished for
a place of safety, and
for the consolation
of sunrise.
It seemed as alive
as it is dead; as green
with life as it is dusty
and dry as the sands
of unremitting time.
Turning out of a red brick facade
there was a pink bougainvillea
in delicate decline.
I saw a branch shake.
A bloom floated down
skittering across the
gritty earth.
Silver Creek State Forest Campground
September 3, 2015
Roma Series
@2015 Ostia Antica — Joseph Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
a place of floating scenes of ancient life.
It is a history, place, and purpose lost.
Made of red brick cemented to red brick
of still remaining homes for
those that walk there forever.
Stumbling down the Roman road
with scant eye drawn down
row after row of structures
bereft of roofs, built
one together sharing thick walls
side-by-side
as plotted and straight
as a Jeffersonian section.
Latin was read on
the steps of a temple of grass
under the watch of two Roman
statues with knowing eyes
and pursed lips.
Yet I was drawn to
the rows of red brick where
I could hear the cries of babies,
the laugh of children playing,
felt the push of moving crowds
in narrow streets.
Later I heard the shouts
of those with cups of wine,
gambling, and cheering into the night.
I saw streets lit with torches,
the flicker of oil lamps,
and dark streets riven
with the light of the moon.
Lost there I wished for
a place of safety, and
for the consolation
of sunrise.
It seemed as alive
as it is dead; as green
with life as it is dusty
and dry as the sands
of unremitting time.
Turning out of a red brick facade
there was a pink bougainvillea
in delicate decline.
I saw a branch shake.
A bloom floated down
skittering across the
gritty earth.
Silver Creek State Forest Campground
September 3, 2015
Roma Series
@2015 Ostia Antica — Joseph Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.