Prole, Issue 23, 2017
Tourists spill from bloated buses: origin Liverpool
Or Glasgow or Calais. Two thousand years of green
Hills hug a reliable river. Now the ruins cosset secrets
Like this one black leather shoe mounted in a glass
Tomb, its mate lost in the rubble of garrison to
Farmland, fort to far-enough away. To build this
Remnant of an emperor’s wall, one soldier rode from
Northern Spain in pointed moccasins with twice-crossed
Straps. He studied the terrain. He held the line. Now
The line holds him in its distant chatter, a scattering
Of language ash, each modern visitor heavy with
Easy facts. The shoe in the case in the room with the
Millennial view stares back at the one pair of eyes
That can feel the sting of sweat from the ride, at the
Cupped hand to ear that listens for the clatter of hooves.