O tempora!

After the airport X-ray, my lungs feel lighter:
the silver leaf of my alveoli
has flaked away
in the slipstream of neutrons.
Through the plate glass of departures,
I spy the runway

long and clear like a dropped ruler.

Someone knows its length.
I don’t. To be honest
I'm unsure if I’m up to this gig...
smuggling relics back from Corinium.
But “Corinium” trips off

the tongue, and reminds me pleasingly
of the periodic table.

In 45AD, the runway is terracotta mosaic.
An aroma of damp leather
curlicues the air.
Behind the terminal, an amphitheatre cups the sky.
Next to it is a walnut tree
on a blanket of spilt golden leaves.
My first thought: it must be autumn.