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.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Passage to Exile
- Sacred Teachings of the Ancient Victorians
- Hedera helix
- Boneyard Dogs
- In Loving Memory
- One for Sorrow, Two for Joy
- Horror Fictions
- Curating the Dead
- Among the Brambles
- Heat Indices
- Grief Bacon
- If there were such things as ghosts
- The life of the body
- The Angel of Confession
- Death Angels
6 Replies to “Mutiny”
I love that first line!
Like the Sutton Hoo lines–quite, quite loose and surprising a jump.
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!
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?
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.