The Grave of Keats

We took the tube to Pirami station and roughly followed the map behind the Pyramid, following a large stone wall with small barred windows. We entered the Protestant cemetary through large wroght iron bars. My first thought was the beauty and I was quite breath taken. There were neat gravel paths with green, carefully trimmed plants and trees all over the garden. We wound our way to Shelley, and soon I went off to the left to seach for Keats. Ducking under a stone wall, I followed a path through much less crowded field. In the corner, lay Keats, with "here is lies a young poet whose name was writ in water." Next to him lay his best friend, and his best friend's child.

I thought of Oscar Wilde and how he fell and wept upon Keat's grave. The thought of Oscar Wilde standing in the same spot I did, and crying, made me feel as if I should cry. But no one loves false tears. So it began to rain instead. I pulled up the collar on my green coat and just stared. Writ in water. And here in Italy.

I don't have much against Catholics. But after seeing many Catholic churches earlier that day, I found much more peace in that vibrant cemetery with ivy and lilacs growing on the walls and at the foot of graves. Cats prowled around, protectors of the grave. I'm not over-fond of cats, but there was something calming about their presence, watching over the souls of the quick and the dead.