At the foot of the Aventine
the Protestant cemetery,
and the ultimate tourist souvenir
where Cestus was buried.
In the scramble of paths a hunt;
the cats accompanying me assured
a mouse at least must be my goal.
They tolerate my rest in the far corner,
where Keats’ grave is placed.
The stone within his heart
removed to mark his grave.
Quiet the wind, August flowers scattered,
cornflowers blossoming
above his head.
Quiet the cat that presently sat by me,
listening carefully to my quotes
with drowsy purr.
John Keats!
Whoever else lies near you,
yours is the golden spirit
of late summer Rome.
Kathleen Griffin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pyramid-of-cestus/
