by Francesca Weekes

Open land with lime trees,
Older than the Romans and their roads,
Older than the thin-boned fish in the water,
Older than hindsight.
Grasped from the claws of giants,
Safe haven, the soldiers didn’t come here.
Kings hunted when the land was fertile,
Drank wine scooped from the crushed grapes
Of these fields, slept in rickety wooden lodges
And waved to the peasants who thronged the one street.
Mud trod into straw floors,
Children freezing their hands in the fields,
Cows shared the living room, snuffing smoke
From the fire crackling in the hearth,
Living on wood sliced from the lime trees.