Soil crumbled, soft under the hoe.
Weeds cleaned away,
Seeps into grave goods, gold, a rusted spear.
Beware of dreams under the goose-flown snow.
I spoke the words. You would say, “He chose”.
I heard the words spoken, would perhaps not have chosen.
Over there, beyond the quay side
Memories run like rats
The old pot was on the fire
Black in the heat of the flames.
Barrow Byrn we came down to a stern track
Corpse stones from the hillside haunted our packs
Another storm, another bird blown in.
All forms of creature take shelter here
Passengers stand, read newspapers, stare into inner worlds
Watch the black tunnel walls flicker past
