West Kennet Long Barrow
A cow rubs her ear against an oak tree
near the mouth of the Kennet River.
I am tired but Catrin takes me by my arm
up to the long barrow on the path winding
between fields of wheat. We stand where over
and over for a thousand years bones were placed
and then taken away. I have read that people
who know they will die in days sing differently
from those who will die in weeks. We know little
of these people whose bones rested here—how they hunted
with yew bows as long as themselves the animals
which were also their gods; or if they stopped
in their running, mouths open, gasping for breath
because of love; or sang in a particular way
close to death every day of their lives.
by Margaret Lloyd
from Open Field; Poems from Group 18
Open Field Press, Northampton Press, 2011