Above the Catacombs of St. Callistus
fields of grass and flowers grow.
Fescue and poppies
above the dark mazes
where the bones lie.
A blue sky with clouds.
Not a cross but an anchor.
A fish.
Not another English actor
but a beardless boy, a lost sheep
wrapped around his neck
like a scarf.
The way the roots of the Cypress
shoot straight down,
deep into the waiting earth.