Two Hillsite Burials

Climbing from the council van, through the shadows
of afternoon, onto the downlands. Hillsites, iron-age
farms, the earth swept bare by the wind.
In the bee-hive grainstore, sunk deep into the ground, disused,
like a stoppered jar, you were thrown. A heap
of bones, huddled as if trying to stay warm.
By the ditch a different burial - brooches, buckles,
strange pots. They named you Reg, a rich man,
those who lifted your bones; the other stayed nameless.

 

 

 

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