Tuesday, 19 January 2016

Poem a Day 2016 / 15

Old, Old

The snake died, a bag of skin over old bones
on the morning we were going away.
I disengaged the heating mat, staggered with the glass tank
to the chill damp of the morning air,
lifting out the snake, her eyes open, glazed.
She was fine last night...
Still stiff, Mobius curves around her rocks and wood,
sand and sawdust still hot from the mat
as I scan for something to wrap her in.
A linen tablecloth, old, ragged, paint-spattered
becomes her shroud and I inter her
into the warm musk of the compost bin.
Three months, six, she'll be bones
waiting to uncover and thread on spools of silk;
ready to carry dreams to the realm of Spirit.
Sand and sawdust steeped in the memories of bones.

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