Cameron Griffiths

Postcards

and take another moment  to  re-read  the postcards from your great,
great   grandfather.   Malaga,    Southampton,   New   York,   Havana.
Postmarks like royal seals. June, August. Some not postmarked at all
but  tied  together  in  a  bundle of time and  sent  in  an  envelope  by
unknown  means.  His bride  left  behind. I do think about  you  every
day. The flowing loops are partly erased where her soft finger wanted
more.  This  year he is in a taxi making for the wharf, to just miss  the
vessel. Enough money in his  pockets,  we leave him booking the next
possible passage from  Kingston.  Last  year there was the business of
puppets  and  wooden  puzzles in Santiago that  made  him a  fortune.
Always  the  suspicion of another family. These days of laying  to  rest
and  rain,  when we open the door and walk out anyway,  sinking into
our  high  collars, our  bodies shuddering. I  have  tried  to  write  this
many times.

At Baelo Claudia

At Baelo Claudia archaeologists excavate
a roman fishing village. Under ancient arches

shadows of stone in the clear sunlight,
delimited by green. In the sweet dawn air

the intricate centre of a sunflower full of life.
A clump of snails in the curled tip of a cactus leaf.

The southern cliff face is cut through by visible seams
of shale, rough membranes between a yesterday,

a today. You talk of Morocco — out there — tomorrow
as we pound and grind handfuls of grey shards,

mix the powder with water until a paste forms.
Layer each other. Face up, all thought

moves away in silence to gather like the clouds
somewhere just beyond the horizon.