Flying Camels, Antony Johae

My road is Roman;
it straddles the old wall
down to the Quaker burial ground.

Where the cedar grows
it bends towards the park
heading west to the foot of Balkerne Hill.

I pass where a gate once was
triumphal perhaps with legions passing
recalled now on moss-covered plaque.

Caught in a cold easterly
I mount the steps to William’s castle
to the shelter of its tall walls.

My walk-thoughts wander south
to winter sun, hot behind car glass,
to desert seeds grown to yellow flowers.

I reach the place where children play
and see beyond on mansion’s well-kept lawn
three camels, tethered, courtesy of Ryanair.