The Undertaker's Son Print
By Ivor Griffiths
The Undertaker's Son

A statue in a tent hides from the sun
peering down a canyons face

it spies spectacles, gold rimmed, glinting, in a heat haze
a rotting dead head inside staring back; gristle,

red stump of a neck, extrudes some spine
and peeling skin is baking slowly.

Unfrozen, clambering, down shale and stones,
I carry a stick, to steady my hand.

Prodding the head a broken lens tinkles,
other is cracked, and gold wires bent.

First time I saw a body was when I were nine,
It was embalmed, the face skin stuck, with special glue.

I wish I had left that head alone,
and packed my tent, wandered home and slept,

erased that picture from my mind; but in my head
the dead head reclines, staring at me, all the time.