Tuesday, 29 November 2016


The skull lies desolate
on the bare mountain side.
Lying among rocks and stones
with a few accompanying bones.
Each day it decays as nature weathers
it and destroys all its form and substance
so that it wastes away and fades into the landscape.
If it had come to rest lower down the mountain
it would have sunk into the boggy peat moss
and risen with hair and hide intact with,
the cause of death discernible, with
its last meal of grass or rabbit
still there inside its stomach.
Preserved by nature.
Preserved or wasted.
It all depends on

where you fall.

First published in With Painted Words, September 2016


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