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.