Which doesn't sound very much like me.
Anyway, this was also a time when I was sorting my head out by writing poems at the rate of two or three a week and inevitably a lot of them deal with archaeology at some level or other.
This was the first of them. And because it's the first it feels special. I've been looking at it for a few days now, sizing it up and looking for flaws and this morning I took my courage in both hands and rewrote the ending.
Phil comes home with a hammer stone.
It was lent to him by Dave Tully
Whose expertise is in Celtic Warrington.
Picture Tully walking the fields;
He's looking out for the shapes of coins-
Silver, copper, stamped with the image
Of some fat Caesar with thyroid problems,
Looking for glints from special stones
Like this. It comes from the Neolithic,
About the size of a bag of flour,
With dimpled sides, a glassy finish,
Percussion marks at the business end.
I lift it up. It weighs as much
As a severed head. It's a two-hand job
To pound whatever it was we pounded
Before there were nails.
With a hill and a wood and a boundary river.
On moonless nights they breach the circle
And make like birds. They trail their wings
All round my village.
Holding his hands out to take it back,
“It’s possible Tully’s wrong and this"-
He strokes the hammer stone’s silky flanks-
“Is nothing to do with us and it came
From a river bed and was shaped by water.”