Fibula
(Senhouse Museum, Maryport)

Some craftsman beat this tine into a curve,
Wrought this clasp with curlicues, butter in a farmer’s basket.
It must have been a loved thing in this barren place, far from home.
A gift to a woman. There is some love here, in this simple thing,
An ordered, crafted chaos in this copper pin, too light for winter cloaks.
Some lady of the town cared for it, used it to pin her lighter gowns
On rare days in the North when it was warm enough for summer finery.
Roman holidays when the legions drilled, new alters consecrated,
Slaves bought, an air of festival around the vicus,
The scent of aromatic fires, saffron and juniper,
Lavender from the old country, fresh pies baked at dawn.
She wore that new brooch he had given her to complement
The cloth brought from Rome on muleback. And a woman
In the Roman crowd, hand on soft-downed arm,
Had said ‘My dear, so delicate.’

Now the tiny thing is lost; a trifle.
Light cloth snagging on a doorway, the pin
Was wrenched away, lies still in earth,
Under some stone, forever separate.
The brooch fell without your noticing.
You grieved a little.
For centuries, it lay here in the ground,
The sea wind turning art to dust.
It’s cold now in my hand, exuding dampness,
Copper marking my palm. Stigmata
Of forgotten lives.

From: ‘Walls at the World’s End’ 2005