|Anthem for Doomed Youth|
Exhumed bog burial in the British Museum, thought to be the remains of an Iron Age Prince.
All morning I tried
to see it as birth:
your stepping away,
simply an idea of progress,
a better life; a leap
that left no room for regret,
no glance back over
the shape you shed,
the landscape's abundant ground cover.
Instead, I look out into absence,
the skyline blotted from view. What refuge
is there in distance if the horizon dissolves
just like that? Once I stood
with the others, there at the casement,
drawn to an image, an eyeful of death. And the body
brought back to this side: junked leather
in a museum case.
I'll wonder forever
what led you to follow;
what knowledge you last fed upon;
what was gained the moment the step
that should not have taken was taken.
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