The Hallstatt Skeleton
Two Korean boys agape,
pointing at the bleached bones
of the Neolithic Salt miner
laid out in reverential order, small
Adams reaching to a gaping god.
The Peter Pans look up at parents,
needing confirmation that horror
on proud display is a real thing,
not a model, surrounded by fake
grave goods, examples of hundreds
found in Hallstatt’s Neolithic burials,
the world’s first ever salt mine,
now a theme park on the Salzberg
peering down at the Hallstatt lake
cupped in an Alpine pelvis, mobbed
by tourists sweetening life before
they become bones. Having summited
40, I am tottering between boyhood
and being buried, looking down
at the bones of those whom I love.
March Moon
Bulging with new tides, birdsong,
she sings in early evening skies,
A bucking hare in her marble eye
encased with pale blue silk,
Shielded by smoky clouds,
she reminds you of orbs, discs,
the circular path that resists
meandering, looking back,
reflecting. The reassurance of
the return, older but constant.