so many false memories abound up here
among the rocks
yet this itch cannot be scratched entirely
a niggle that if only we dig down
through the black peaty mud
up will come flint arrow heads
legionary buckles
golden coins with the heads of emperors
as we sip our tea in the lea of a bank
sheltered from the chill wind
with vaguely pointed figures we trace
the plan of the imagined roman fort
draw a map in the air of the plumb-line road
and the clearer this illusion becomes
the stronger the scent of woad on our skin
as we drift from false memory
into a richer world
a world in which we no longer imagine
for we are the brigantines now
keeping watch
and the more madness we feel
only validates this entitlement
we will roll down boulders
stand naked on the crestline
beat our chest and cry out
for only we know the secret
only we know where the false memory
lies buried
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