When our plaything ricochets
falling
who knows where
everything hinging
on the line

I hear the roar of
the ocean. I hear
a series of shrieks
and long screams.

Nobody knows what Cicero’s gardener whistled
to his figs and olives, what the consul’s young wife
hummed to herself while slaves combed beeswax
and perfumed oils from Carthage into her hair.

She creeps under the opening, then stands.
Her guide passes her the stub of a candle,
holds up his own to show the ceiling rock.

The track leads through thickets, threaded with eyes.
Elusive scraps of dreams, they gleam, flicker out.

On my son’s desk lies
the periodic table of the elements.
I look. Amongst the arcane names
I recognise, easy as breathing,
carbon, oxygen, gold, beloved of kings.

The first three days of war
have a surprising holiday feel.
No deadlines, just the giddy gasp of shock.
Ordinary life continues.

Conscience
as taught her by the nuns   was a bridle
on a young girl’s tongue