Meditations on a Roman Amphitheatre

A grey, misty morning in the greenness of England.

Trees sway and shake as wind passes by,

Leaves spin and plummet, as the wipers metronome the drops.

We are driving on a September Sunday:

An errand to get some paint, a subdued shade as a backdrop.

Mission successful, decision made, we depart the store.

Home beckons and mundane tasks hover

Like annoying wasps on the periphery of my thinking.

I don't want to let them in to taint and dominate the day.

It is good, spending time, driving and chatting;

This is what Sundays are for: the slow, the sedentary,

The steadiness of life.

My husband is driving and decides on a detour -

Roman Britain on our doorstep - let's explore!

This is welcome, a layered diversion.

***

It is dank and grey and inhospitable outside -

Summer is shedding, flaking and dishevelled,

Cowering before the expected rise

Of the phoenix warmth of Autumn's plumage.

But I welcome the reprieve from drudgery.

An amphitheatre! Why not?

Images of thrusting gladiators and savage beasts

From the conquered outposts pop into my mind;

Crowds roaring, blood spurting, fervour rising -

Past lives given and taken in an instant.

We follow the cultural signs, pieces of brown peeking

From between the fronds of foliage ungroomed-

Tantalising and provocative, like clues

To a puzzle, an ancient enigma.

We are in a housing estate:

History is literally on someone's doorstep.

Life has moved on - other humans have encroached

On the culture stemming from Italy's dominance.

A pocket of ancient power nestles in domesticity.

We find a place to park - by the Scouts' hut:

An auspicious start of which an auger would be proud -

"Speaks of adventure and promise and enthusiasm!

Your proposed exploration will be a success!"

A sign! We have been given a sign! And no bulls harmed.

An endorsement from a hint of intrepid youth seems apt.

There is a golden gravel path, taking us past an obelisk,

History unknown, possibly 1700s, linked to Pope,

That great poet? The link to Egypt doubled

By its shape and its connection to Britain's Alexander the Great.

Its position, its lack of announcement -

I am reminded of Shelley's Ozymandias,

The forgotten monuments erected, who knows why?

Their origin left for conjecture by strangers.

Towering above the sedums and lilac geraniums,

Cushioned by dark leafy trees, with no inscription -

A lonely token, now parochial with dwindling power.

We move on, up, to yellow stone benches,

Framing a circular feature of information:

A map, a pictorial representation of

This corner of Rome: Corinium is where we stand.

From here, we see mounds of green hillocks

And a downward path across grass, by woods.

Autumn is in the scent, the damp - fungal and ripe,

Like the ferment before rejuvenation

As we head towards the site.

There it is. The remnants of Rome's rigour.

It is a grassy bowl, an overgrown crater, its base a stage.

We are its players today. And a lady. In blue leggings,

Hooded and hurried in the rain. And her dog. A labradoodle?

Groomed and meandering, chasing smells excitedly, tail wagging.

I stand in your centre and turn, willing the history to touch me.

I have the shape of you. I know you are there,

Buried under Nature's encroachment of green tufts

Like an old lady smothered by her thick green tweed coat,

Her sharp edges padded out and disguised,

But I am struggling to see you as you were.

Your bigger brothers on the continent

Have survived you better with their arches and warm climate

And their centrality to Empire.

It is difficult to perceive your essence

When you are being used for a routine dog walk.

Gone is the savagery, the entertainment, the glory!

There is no spectacle here, no power.

It is a gathering of green grass, hinting at a past

Of triumph and mercy begging, fighting and performance,

The only blades waving those of grass, coerced by wind;

And we, the players on the floor, briefly treading here

Before departing once more.

We leave you, coated by Nature, sleeping forever.

You fought to the death but you have lost,

Your purpose made obsolete by Empire's demise.

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my poem about Corinium and the vestiges left when Empire is removed and Nature encroaches.

I love ancient civilisations and the Roman Empire in particular so to visit a Roman site is always a privilege, although some are better than others. Britain has a great Roman legacy and I liked the accidental nature of our encounter with this stadium, despite the fact that it has very much changed from that which it was. But then time doesn't age a lot of us very well does it? Blurs our features and alters us into a shadow of what we once were.

And so, it would seem, the same is true of amphitheatres.

If you liked this, you may like:

or more loosely formed poetry:

Thanks for stopping by!