A masoned fin,
Thick and season-sore,
Stuck in a field
Like some headstone,
Lichen birthmarked,
Birdshit pimpled;
Held together home
As known by those
In antique clothes
Huddled around bowls
Of slimy spuds
And stringy meat.
Grass now gathered,
Red ants crawling,
Earthworms twisting,
Over this house.
Oak beams eaten,
Shaped into soil
Where bits of bone,
Fabric fibres,
Lonely molars
Faintly call forth
The dust-reduced,
Long-gone owners.
