Poetry Corner: Saint Eanswythe
JUDE MONTAGUE
Old, old bones
What have you got to say?
Nothing, you can’t talk.
You’re old, old bones.
Maybe you’d say, ‘You’re stupid.’
Or ‘We’re not stupid,
why do they think we’re stupid?’
Maybe we shouldn’t have kept you,
Old, old bones.
But one time you were special
and you walked about in flesh and blood
then we couldn’t get over the fact
that you died.
Now you can’t walk, you can’t talk
and things have changed
so much we can’t deal with it.
Old, old bones
though you can’t see or smell it
the blossom and lambs are here again
we’re getting a glorious spring.
Old, old bones
don’t dance, don’t sing.
Do what you do best,
lie in your box
and make us think.
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