journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
Mortal remains
The painted inscription at his feet is faded
though it is plain his name was 'Richarde, Kt,
Batchelor of this Parrish'. His eyes, stony,
look steadfast at the lofted roof and perhaps
beyond. On this summer afternoon he seems
warm enough. In the winter, when wind-whistle
rasps the windows, his doublet with its dark ochred
criss-cross painted quilting looks too thin.
The stone-closed book between his marble hands
is no doubt sacred. It may have been effective.
It may have kept him safe from fire, fear, sword
and the childhood pox until a fever took him,
aged twenty-three, four hundred years ago
and more. Perhaps he had joy of it. Perhaps it
sustained him through the black-crowed nights
and cold snow-swept days in the double handful
of winters he called his own.
Twelve feet below him lie his bones, twisted with
time and the contortions of decay. Between them is
the dust his flesh became. Hidden there, beyond
the sight of science, the twisted gene-codes he
shares with me still murmur the patterns of his life,
mixed with the dulled mosaic of the virus that stopped him.
John Bailey
Somerset, June 17 2001
All text, artwork and html coding,
except where otherwise indicated,
Copyright © 1997-2002 John Bailey.
All rights reserved.