Lines in Baked Clay
by Jerome Betts
(From an aerial photograph of a Roman site)
Between the trees, the soil dries out and splits,
Smelling of apples perfumed by the sun;
In warm bruised fruit the wasps fret browning pits.
Over the orchard hedge, the furrows run
Towards the ghost that troubles ranks of maize
Whose tassels dip, rise, dip, to mark the stone
Parching their growth, the pavements, drains and ways.
Now, where they cross, an oak-tree stands alone.
A plane still quarters, as the light turns gold,
To read the landscape’s labyrinth of lines
And flesh out tales the scraps of Samian told,
The blank brown sockets touched by plunging tines
And coins’ dumb faces that the ploughman found
Where the winged shadow ripples without sound.