Only these stone hut walls record their lives.
We know: not Roman. We speculate them
pastoral and kind. We say the grass is modern
but this gross wind must have been here then
tearing their eyes like ours, blurring the enemy
that never comes. And without trees no love
was secret on this hill. Your hot glance
at a girl exposed you to the grunting god
they hid with cattle in the far hut you were not
allowed to see. Where did they suddenly go,
third century, before Penzance and the discovery
of tin? You have to shout your theory
in this wind and shouted it sounds silly.
Black plague comes back laughter and grass bends
obedient as ancient beets. The size of huts
implies big families or people so communal
they did not use names. No one’s found a coin,
something that might indicate exchange.
You loved your sister and she mocked you
as you crawled the dirt toward her, your breathing
muffled by her cackle and the drumming sky.