Neil Young

Freshman - 603 Points (b.1970 / England)

Bones - Poem by Neil Young

Sat in the undercroft of St. Leonard’s
She takes money, like Charon, in her thin
Bony hand. Her table proffers postcards;
Sepia reproductions affirm in
Here all we see; shelves, alcoves lined with bone.
Whose faces once dressed these skulls? Whose sockets
Held eyes that watched, as mine study now, hone
In on these earth-worn, mediaeval remnants.

Further in, humorous and femur stacked
Head high, gather dust like a dry stone wall.
Random skulls, pleading, peer out over cracked
Lower jaws, displayed among other small
Fragments. We do not touch, return instead;
Charon our guide through this aisle of the dead.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Poem Edited: Thursday, August 11, 2011

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