Bones of the Land

We live among the bones of the land

Between the place where the sea has slashed

Sabre sharp through the turf

Revealing the soft chalky white flesh beneath

And where the surf has scratched and scoured at the soil

To show the naked bones of the very under-rock

And we cower among the ribs

Huddling for warmth against the scalpel wind

Among the Liver and the lights

Just as a hunter on the frozen tundra

Will slaughter her horse and, slashing its stomach,

Force her blooddrenched soul into its guts

Into the warmth for succour.

And yet, when the year and the wind turns

The skeleton dries in the sun and wind

And we can make such pretty things

Carving pieces of bone for trinkets.