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.
mmm
Bex – 20/12/2012
It's a Poetical World 