I, the Intruder
In Italy, I walked along Pompeii:
an eeriness exudes each house and street
(although those crumbling structures had been fine,
lived in and loved by those who'd died that day);
the ground still trodden by so many feet...
like mine.
I wondered, 'Is it right to visit here,
to peer in places where they'd sleep and dine?'
The people felt so close as though we'd meet;
what would they think of me, a sightseer?
Their shrine!
written 20th October for Sara's curtal sonnet contest
Copyright © Jack Horne | Year Posted 2020
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