A silver phosphorescence
rising out of the gloom
of the Atlantic trench
fish-bones, a glimpse
caught in a camera-flash
of some long extinct creature,
a plesiosaur
with glowing teeth.
An intimacy
with a self I do not know:
call him Jolly Roger,
the bone-man
a carving buried deep
in a prehistoric mound
and exhumed for the first time,
painted skeletons lit
momentarily as they dance
around a pit of embers.
Or it might be brushstrokes
illuminated on a cave wall
after five thousand years
hidden in the spine
this archaeology
performed by chisels
of starlight.

Mark Rutter

If you have any comments on this poem, Mark Rutter  would be pleased to hear from you.