Reading:
A garden at Selinunte Not much of a garden really. A few marble fragments Scavenged from the ruins plus a couple of sarcophagi In terracotta serve to remind the visitor of the fragility Of even the mightiest works of men. Earthquakes in the end Brought down what Carthaginians failed to do. Still, there were Oleanders, palms, figs and prickly pears to soften the view Of shattered masonry and reward us with their variegated greens. Best of all though was the shade, gift from an acacia tree Bent almost double by a century of sirocco. But there was only the one seat. Ahead, I see some fellow pensionato, Like me, knocked out by the heat of the sun, increase his pace. Bastardo! I give way and let him sit with what good grace I can muster. Such thoughts give way to darker ruminations. This tormented pile of ten-ton blocks was once a temple Standing in proud polychrome upon its promontory, A way mark for mariners of all the ancient nations That surrounded what the Romans called ‘our sea’. They succeeded Greeks who build this place Until they were vanquished in their turn. And so will we, who pose upon the plinth to take our selfies Vanish all too soon. Sandy dirt’s supplanted grass long since, The little fountain’s dry and filled with mozziconi. Palms and oleanders will endure a while Though they were planted by whoever made the garden. I wondered what grew on this hill when Greeks from Megara Hyblaea Cleared the space to build in honour of Demeter? ‘Oh, good! He’s gone at last.’ I walk across to take his place and in the cool Sit down to jot these lines on the reverse side of my boarding pass.
Peter Lloyd Jones 