Accidental dolmen

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.


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