Joanna Boulter
The Excavation at How Tallon Barrow, 1897
He was used to death. Part of his stock-in-trade,
handling the still-warm breasts of birds he’d reared;
or the rank crow and weasel, splayed
thou shalt not on the gibbet-fence.
This was different. This was death
older than history. As that head birthed
his fingers gentled the caul of soil away,
and he thought of God on the sixth day
shaping Adam out of mud and breath.
He cupped the perfect skull
to show the gentlemen. A sudden gust.
It shuddered like the memory of a fever
and fell. His hands were full of dust.
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