I walk with stolen vision
through mist-shrouded fields
of golden grasses hissing softly
at my probing passing.
In subtle counterpoint
are the cries and clawings
of self-damned souls,
unwilling to depart from
whence they died by spear
axe arrow gladius hoof
on this ancient field much
altered from when I last
knew injury upon it.
No more trees, at least not
visible through this white veil.
A sudden cry from the side
startles me… was it crow or haunt?
I pause, wondering if a crow
might not itself be but a memory
of this forsaken place.
I move on, searching...
searching... hint of slope...
questing for that place
where once I fell beneath
the iron tip of Gallic spear
and thereafter encountered you.
I stumble upon a clump of weed
flickered briefly to Latin shield,
and ponder (moving on) whether it
was past or present that tripped me.
I struggle with myself, questioning
the wisdom in this jaunt through
the courses of ancient memory,
but curiosity is a passionate pull…
and wanting to somehow find
that very spot where once we met.
(Call me a romantic.)
I shut away the foggy lie that is
this present field of gold and
open myself to the underlying
cacophony of the earth’s memory.
About me sudden the battle dances,
Celts roaring down from the hill,
my century there bracing for the…
the touch upon my shoulder
surprising me from my scrying.
Your look of amusement brings
a smile to my own face,
warms me from the chill of death.
"It's over here," you whisper smile,
taking my hand and guiding.
"Like you to find it first!" I tease,
but you just nod, adding wryly,
"You were wounded, after all,"
as if that should explain everything.
You stop, glance down to our feet,
then look into my eyes tenderly.
They caress me then, your eyes, and
the rightness of the spot comes clear.
And so we stand here silent where
once we met in ages passed,
and savor the memories of that
distant time and its gentle ripples
in our present (immortal) dance.
