There were traces of me,
Some burnt vestiges
Found under mulch,
Detritus in strata, then debris.
I didn’t look very much like me,
But the finders were keepers
And they all disagreed.
They could have just left
The stagnant shell of myself
Where I’d slept all those years;
My mouth full of moss, and behind
My green eyes, fern-flooded ears.
After their initial shock
Discovering me in those woods
For a while I wondered
If they could return,
Yet they did, armed with candles
And prayers and books
With scripts I’d unlearned since
There’s nothing to read
With an ego interred.
After they repatriated me
Within the appropriate earth,
All the towns seemed different,
New, not shiny or imbued
With ores, nor for once subdued
By saddening flags and blankets,
Whose seven colours draped
And sometimes secured
Our feelings, through sombre times,
Thankless times, where we found
The end of heaven.