A picture in every direction

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.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in MöbiusTrip, poetry, travel and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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