The Springs
Pressed hard against jagged craters and
sweeping lava flows of dead volcanoes
frozen to stone eons ago,
the bones of the Roman city lie exposed.
Low stone walls, delicate, orderly
delineate streets and squares, homes and shops.
Here and there fluted columns stand
as they did two thousand years ago
when this was Glanum, outpost of empire
in the wild western region of Gaul.
I stand on a ridge of cliffside, peering down
looking for something,
not stones, not fragments of carvings,
not broken figures from friezes of war.
I am looking for water.
For in this hot dry city, I have read,
there is a spring, an ancient spring
known to the indigenous people of this place.
I see them, the Ligurians, the old ones
before the Romans, before the Gauls,
before the Western Goths who sacked this city sixteen centuries ago.
They gather round their campfires in the gloom
telling of the hunt, sharpening arrows,
refining bits of wisdom in the night,
and pulling clear pure water from their spring.
Back down in the city
I search through the streets and alleys,
and come upon the spa of Valetudo
goddess of health-giving waters. There she is
carved in her niche, headless,
still presiding over her bath --
down well worn steps, a pool of
brackish water, festooned with algae,
holding the dregs of empire all these years.
Then I see them --
more steps, leading up, away
from Valetudo’s spa, straight up the mountain.
High on a pinnacle, high over the city,
there is the cleft in the rock, the orifice I seek.
I clamber closer and peer down. All is dark and dry
no sound of water.
I listen, pitch my ear for echoes
beyond the dry grass, the volcanic rocks.
When did the sacred spring last gurgle through this well?
My whole being bent to attention, I wait
but everywhere, silence.
No faint murmur, whisper of flow,
no scent of wetness coming through.
All I hear is dry grass rustling
cicadas shrilling in the heat,
and I am comfortless as I depart.
Months later, I am swimming
in the river by my home
in the river I call home.
The mist is golden in the early sun
the undulant surface green, green and amethyst.
By the bank a white water lily,
gently rocked by ripples, opens its heart.
I drift in the tranquil current dreaming
And there they are, the ancient ones, gathered
here into me, smiling, complete.
As I calmly stroke, water washes through my mouth, soft and clean.
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