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