If they document our lives at any point,
That day in Rome will surely have to feature;
Although, in fact, the ‘they’ don’t do such things,
Neglectful both of being and of time.
Will even we agree on what took place,
Between Testaccio and the Arch of Constantine?
Here’s my take, beloved, for the record:
After croissants at the Café Barberini,
We set off past the ruined Gate of Paul;
I gestured at the mass of Aurelian’s Wall
And spoke of where the Gothic camps had been,
But led you on across the Aventine.
How much did I relate of that Hill’s tale,
Conscious of our evanescent parsing?
I mentioned Roman mansions, I recall
And their looting, on the City’s fall –
My mind aflame with histories that I knew,
But what do all such histories mean to you?
Beyond that one of seven fabled Hills,
We came, as we had purposed, to the Baths;
And there, as I had hoped, your awe awoke.
For there the soaring arches that remain,
The hints and hollowed haunts of ancient marbles,
Sighed ‘ROME!’ to you, with all that that implies.
I’ve written of the Baths of Caracalla
And been immersed in their imagined glories;
I’ve dreamed for years of concerts in their gardens;
Of Shelley’s sojourn there and other stories;
But your gratitude and shining, chestnut hair
Have quite transformed my sense of being there.