Wrote this poem after visiting a foreigners cemetery in Rome, which is next to a hill that is made from broken pottery shards. All sorts of famous people are buried there including the poets Percy Shelley and John Keats.
In the shade of the broken mountain.
Labyrinthine stone lined hill,
Grass covered streets beneath time eaten wall.
Through ivory vistas range sleek fur-lined apparitions.
Psychopomps or guardians?
While bards untamed in life become brothers,
Silent children of the shadows.
Here their great words are lost to poignant brevity,
And the only verse that is heard is
“All in life comes to this place,
And none return save in memory”
