War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

little Corner of England (16)

down a medieval road
across a Victorian iron bridge.
past Anglo Saxon churches, old fog.
my face wet, mist-soaked so silent.
only bicycle tire nubs
on wet pavement, and cobblestones,
greasy brakes through Quintana Gate
plus ça change, plus ça change
those Roman boys wrote home eighteen hundred years ago
for socks, underwear, the taste of home—
dates, figs, Spanish olive oil—
the boys I knew, Canadians,
wanted socks on Ex,
then in dry, dry, dusty Afghanistan
beef jerky, packs of gum, chew.

into the night I ride. alone.
streets empty but for my flashing LEDs.
past pubs. I think I see him standing there
through warm windows, pint of beer,
his sunburned neck, his close cut hair.
I ride. past the catacombs. only my bike.
my bike and me. I’m sure I see him
safe, alive, in a small ancient Roman fortress
dressed in civvies, a small Roman fortress
dressed up, paved over Roman roads, as a small, 21st century British city.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled little Corner of England (16). It was posted here on March 14, 2012.


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