Above the wood on the plateau a battlefield of bleached bones of stones. Walls wide, thick coarse mortar dusts where green lizards flick their tails and disappear. I try whistling a blade of grass, clamped between thumbs I blow. Silence. I try again and then remember I don’t speak the language. In patches of bare earth shards of pottery, the grooves in the clay still visible from the wheel. A rim, a lip. My fingers touch where someones once did a thousand thousand moons ago.
dominique cameron 
Excellent a historian, archaeologist and poetologist all rolled into one – keep on the write track Dominique ☺️
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Thanks David, the landscape here is fascinating, much to discover – your detector would have a field day 🙂
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The layers of history beneath your feet there is just no telling what lost stories could be gleaned – if only I were younger and in better condition I would become Indiana Dave 🙄
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