A streak of burnt orange on the horizon
Looks like the dying embers of a nuclear bomb
Or the death of a star, through the plane window.

When it’s all over the Romans’ descendents
Will still be seeking out the freshest seafood
From the fisherman down by the port.

Or observing the blondest of blondes wearing her
Latest gaudy fashion. Or spinning their hands in
Gestures which do more than words can be bothered to tell.

Raisons d’etre for a land history passed through
Long ago, leaving behind all the things required
For the good life, always out there somewhere.


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