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

Teenage years
everything begins
it never ends

I didn’t know what to do with all my dad’s love
so, I minded it for him fully intending to give it back one day.