We trace our path from the harbour to
a dark-stepped lane opening out onto
the old churchyard. Green and blue
sea-glass, a rough blush pink is clearlit.
We find small rib bones scattered there.
I pick up the cap of a skull. Small, its
sponge ossified to a mineralized honeycomb.
I cup its yellow cream in my hand. Delicate,
a sea snail, most precious egg, as if
it had touched the ruby feather of a
bluebird. A most precious thing,
bird-egg-shattered, dust in my pores.
We place the bones down on a portico shelf.
Are they human bones, those of an infant?
We lay them under the wing of a sheltering grave,
a small bone heap. We move through the labyrinth.