A few more bones
without apology, I enjoy bones. I have a pile of skulls, shells and bones in the living room complete with festive toadstools and twinkly lights (is it any wonder I live alone with axolotls and fish?)
And with Bone Detectives brewing, I've dug out a couple of ol' bone poems. Enjoy, dismiss or ignore, it's your choice
SOCKET
The sweep of the sky,
The rain's bow,
The curl of a wave,
The sand's dune,
All contained in
The scoop of an eye's socket,
And the bowl of a skull.
A world cradled in
My electric palms
first published in Old stones and ancient bones: poems from the hollow hills, by Gordon Maclellan (me!)
and here is The Bone Pit, written as part of a narrative poem for Buxton Museum's Wonders of the Peak audio trail
THE BONE PIT
A drumming thunder of running hooves, a
racing sweep over the hilltops.
Steaming breath, rolling eyes, the wind
flare of mane.
The heart beats quicker, hooves before
paws, before claws, before teeth.
Remember those who have
gone.
Bone upon bone,
Rattle and fall,
Tooth and horn,
Fang and jaw,
Warm flesh, fur and
feather all grow cold
Together in the bone-pit
darkness
And wait.
Wait for a pick, for a shovel and a gentle
touch
To lift the darkness of 10,000 years.
10,000 years is not so long.
We can look up and out, beyond these
Buxton walls
And see the hills the old animals saw.
The folded dales may remember them yet and
All those we have lost may
Still walk in the dreams the land is
dreaming.
Aurochs, giant deer, bear,
lion, and mastodon,
Remember those who have
gone.
Bone upon bone,
Rattle and fall,
Tooth and horn,
Fang and jaw,
Warm flesh, fur and
feather all grow cold
Together in the bone-pit
darkness