Ancient Roman Fort

Man can hardly count the generations past,
since your great monument first dwarfed the land.
To mortal man whose days are passing fast
your growing hours are numerous grains of sand;
yet by our God made hands, your walls were cast,
and we made in the image of the One
have met the dust, while you stand tall and grand,
with age much closer to the ancient sun,
than we who join the race, but briefly run.

Flowers

2024 Pushcart Prize Nominee

No bride could steal more awed and envying eyes,
than your jewelled garb and brightly petalled shades.
No scent brings on more searching suitors, nigh.
Whom better serves a maiden’s hair array?
What hue was not conceived that God bequeathed,
so you may festoon all the meadow’s green?
Through bees your dust of virile, rampant seed
spreads blooms around the banks of lulling streams.
Shy lover’s hearts are snatched and then unveiled
by the piercing beauty of your dainty hand.
What summer scene, in winter’s more bewailed,
than where your striking splendour sprouts and stands?
No pleasanter a look or fragrance, reigns,
when your majestic bouquet sweeps the plains.

Gary Borck is from the UK and teaches in China. He loves to read and write poetry, (attempt to) write novels, and ramble in natural surroundings. Several of his poems have appeared in Grand Little Things and the Society of Classical Poets.