Mutiny

Danger, falling gravestones

My too-grave stone cannot stand.
Its bull’s-eye cross is tired of target duty.

Stones are such somnolent creatures —
they know nothing of the pleasures of flight.

It could topple at any time, in any wind.
There’s no telling which breath will be its last.

It rides the turf like the ship at Sutton Hoo,
waiting for the sky to cave in.

I thought I was rid of such becalming
when I traded my corpse for fire’s fey wings.

Series Navigation← Boneyard Dogs← Import/Export
Posted in
Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave's writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the "share alike" provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

6 Comments


    1. Thanks. I saw the Sutton Hoo artifacts in the British Museum, and they’ve been on my mind ever since. I decided not to be too explicit about the surf/turf pun — brings up unwanted restaurant connotations!

      Reply

  1. I love “fire’s fey wings.” What captures me about this photo is its irony. What is the danger the yellow tape records? The all too contagious touch of mortality? The possibility that, bending to make out the mossy carving on the stone, one might be dispatched to the sod, pressed flat?

    Reply

    1. Yeah, you’re right — lots of irony there. Unfortunately it’s not as sharp a photo as it could be, but what the hell. Glad you liked the closing phrase. I can’t decide whether it’s too melodramatic or not.

      Reply

Leave a Reply