The Mediterranean stone pine was imported to Britain during Roman times. It's thought that its cones were used as incense.
Mother Roma, how I miss the stone pine,
pining here upon a foreign shore.
Surely I will die abroad, before
four years of exile pass. Oh, pour the bright wine,
wine of Rome, shipped out in huge amphorae,
foray of some merchant's shipping line.
Lined his pockets well, he did. And mine--
mining makes enough for me to pay.
Pale lead, am I your slave or you my servant?
Vanished Rome, oh how I miss the incense!
Sense of home, the smell of burning cones
connects my soul to Rome. If only I could plant
plantations of them, whispering with scent,
essential air of Roma, pines of stone.
Thanks to WOM-PO for discussions of anadiplosis.
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Stone Pines
Labels:
anadiplosis,
poetry,
sonnet
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1 comment:
How wonderful that is. Excellent use for Manic Monday. Have a Manic day. Aloha
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