© Photo by Jon GodfreyCar Dump
At the top of the steep drop they came to kill,
distant ancestors chasing a mammoth into the funnel cave,
and our fathers and uncles pushing their Morris Minors,
their Ford Cortinas and Anglias, no longer
loved and new, down into the open font.
Years later, rituals shunned, the skeletons rusted and
interwoven with vines,
my friend and I pose for a photo there.
Our shadows intertwine in the afternoon sun,
against the granite cliff.
We seem like the first two humans, or the last two,
umbilical sentinels for some lost tribe, ghosting through,
guarding this plugged pore, graveyard, dump,
forensic tourists writing postcards from the earth.
Here in this backwater,
ravens will pick at our modern cave art,
and forceps pluck out our graffiti, our cultural debris,
and every last bone and tooth,
every wheel-hub and axle-shaft,
will have some part of the story to tell.
© Jacqueline Mézec