I’ll be showing you a photo in a minute - a very unassuming photo - and I’ll tell you its fascinating story. Not just - you’ll witness the evolution in writing about it, of how, the moment I started imagining the object in the photo’s past, inspiration took over and things just started flowing in a way that was definitely more fun.
I’ve finished a writing prompt course - and I feel oddly bereft. I realise just how much I’ve enjoyed being surprised with the prompts because I miss them! This was my last entry, and probably the one I enjoyed the most because it was both personal and incredibly detached from the present. We were asked to look at a photo and see in it something that might not be visible or obvious to the viewer.
I hope you enjoy it!
How unremarkable - a trench, and my feet planted firmly at either side. It’s not a very good photo, I somehow managed to cut off most of my left foot, though in my defence, it’s hardly a relevant element. It’s a photo taken with a 1980s 35mm Cosina that used to belong to my father. I love using it for very specific subjects or moments. Because it’s on film, you tend to take extra care when taking the shot – every click is precious, which makes every moment easier to live away from the lens. But I digress. Back to the trench(es).
I don’t want to talk about the (lack of) composition or aperture, of contrast or light. The reason I took this photo was because we found these trenches in a house we are renovating in a small town in the south of Malta. The building is around 4/500 (no one is sure) years old. In all likelihood though, it recalls the Great Siege. These stones remember how they shook as the Ottomans passed very close by after they landed in Marsaxlokk and made their way to Vittoriosa. But these trenches go further. Much, much further.
The house we bought stands on ancient Roman vineyards.
I am at once filled with awe and questions. So many questions.
Some two thousand years ago, someone lowered their plough in the soil with a grunt
Wiped the beads of sweat from his brow
And started pushing.
I stand today, like the colossus of old,
Feet apart
Across the hard labour of… a farmer? A slave?
He halts, a servant brings him a cup of watered wine
To wet his lips and soak his mouth.
But, Gods! What a fool.
His grasp failed and the cup fell, somewhere
The churned soil won’t let him spot it.
He mumbles an apology, promises to look for it.
It is found, some two thousand years later
In fragments, held separately in plastic bags.
Look, our archaeological monitor indicates
Pointing to the inside of the reddish-brown fragments.
See the strata – it’s iron that aligns with the Earth’s magnetic field
at the moment it is fired up.
I gape, astonished.
And I imagine the last person to have handled the cup.
To have lost it, and forgotten about it
Amidst the many chores of the day.
And today, thousands of years later,
His hard work resurfaces
And his respite is recorded.
Would you have said there was a story to be told,
From a photo of an unremarkable foot
Standing astride an unremarkable trench?
Thank you for reading! As always, do let me know what you think!
Yours truly,
Robs x