We used to live by an ancient Roman road
where the chalk gave way to clay
then to grandfather’s fertile garden
lemon trees and vines.
Now we walk in the footprint of the Legions
passed the iron age fort
toward the setting sun, squinting into the night
for signs of good fortune; an eagle wheeling westward home.
As we awake to the scent of dew on wild pears,
passed the place where Brutus met his end
a nation walks away from the homeland
it’s web of common roads and famine.
How can I leave my land
where I loved nothing more
than flying a kite with my children,
wiping the oil off of wild pistachio fruit?
My legs grow stronger now; philosophical,
carrying our burdens to Roman land
thinking not return from whence we came
for my son is smiling, eating blackberries bleeding on his teeth.