In which we Rome around (IV)
On a modern-day teenage gladiator at the Colosseum, I salute her.
Cocooned in a padded jacket and still freezing, I traverse the old
Oval. My wind-teared and sun-squinted eyes
Latch on (in horror) to bare ankles accompanied by a sullen scowl.
‘Oh darling, I told you that you’d need a coat!’ The not-
Subtle maternal ring of ‘I told you so’
Exacerbates the scowl.
“Um,” comes the response,
Mumbled through chattering teeth.
In which we Rome around (III)
On Castel Sant’Angelo and its contents.
Chest number four stands
As tall as tiptoed me, with
Sturdy stained panels warding off
Lies the worn steel
Dance of a sword hilt,
Accompanied by a polite sphere of cream filigree that
Nestles quietly against the pitch barrel of a pistol.
Generation after generation made this
Edifice their own, building into,
Over, growing with.
In which we Rome around (II)
A poem written for the Vatican City, in all its ornate glory.
Vast quantities of g(u)ilt
At your service, Mr Pope, sir.
There’s no such thing as too much
Icing (particularly the fecund floral
And we’ve got a truckload of figleaves at
No extra cost – the boys have their
Chisels at the ready.
It’ll pay for itself, sir, don’t you worry,
They’ll be lining up to see
Yon naked gents, just you wait.