Up the uneven stone steps, above the valley
The sound of the train approaches, then slows

The brakes squeal on the tracks, then release:

It’s the sound of a sabre that cleaves the valley,
the sound of ancient times
and far-away stops

The dark of the valley slowly comes to light:
the Germans are stirring in their kitchens,
the clock tolls the marking of time,
the Romans taught them this:

It is all covered in moss,
the stone is held intact,
the valley opens to the sky.

Categories: Poetry

Tags: postaday