An Ode To BBC’s ‘Time Team’
December 20, 2012

The famous archaeologist

boasts of his recent find,

Some bones in an old farmyard rest

beneath an ancient pine.

He brushes them off carefully;

it takes him many days,

When finally raised above the dirt,

he takes them far away

To study them more closely,

look at each bone’s width and breadth,

And analyse more carefully

events surrounding death.


He lays them out so thoughtfully,

the remnants of this life.

And then a sculptor will arrive

with tools, a putty knife,

He takes the skull into his room

and makes a plastic face,

To show us how this man had looked

when on this earth he graced.


I often wonder if in time,

a hundred years or so,

Some future archaeologist

to your churchyard will go,

And there may randomly unearth

the bones you left behind,

And taking them so far away

in order he may find

How very strong and tall you were

partaking in your life,

The sculptor then will make your face

and use his putty knife.


And so you stare, a plastic head

with dull and glassy eyes,

While all the details of your days

these men will analyse.

They’ll see you were a farmer

gracing time upon these fields,

And find a life of hard work spent,

as may their studies yield.


They’ll note your breadth of shoulder,

and the length your shadow cast,

Those knocks and pings of lifetime

that upon your bones do last.

But the warming of your laughter

now these scientists will miss,

The gentle care within your hands,

the softness of your kiss.

Your eyes so blue in anger,

and the texture of your hair,

The soothing nature of your voice,

the ardour of your stare.


Oh, never will their studies say

how special you could be

In all the days when times were blessed

and you were still with me.

The scientists are now content

with reasons why you died,

But observations didn’t state

how grievously I cried.


Bex – 20/12/2012

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