The archaeology poem

In 1992 Jane, our younger son Duncan and I went on a cycling holiday in the Loire Valley. It was billed as 'Cycling for Softies' but that wasn't entirely accurate. Our base and starting point was the village of Montreuil-Bellay. Here we left our cases and were introduced to the mysteries of the puncture repair kit, and cycling in France. Our clothes and necessities for the remainder of our stay were packed into two rear panniers each, and we set off the following day on our circuit. The actual cycling wasn't a problem, and it was a great way to see the French countryside. We stopped off at our pre-booked hotels, each one chosen for its gastronomic excellence and the ability of the proprietaires to cope with sweaty cyclists. We stayed two nights in each hotel, giving us a clear day between to explore each new area.

We explored Fontevraud, Saumur, Chinon and the Loire chateaux, eating well and enjoying the local Loire red wine, made from the Cabernet franc grape. The chateau described in The Sleeping Beauty is at Ussy, which was closed when we visited, but cycling inland we came to the original medieval village of Ussy, which had been abandoned in the 14th century due to plague. And here we came across an ongoing archaeological dig in the ancient churchyard. What we saw moved me very much, and the following poem resulted. It was first published in Seven Senses (Diehard, 2000).

Les Indigènes

Near the chateau of the Sleeping Beauty
we saw the skulls of babies unearthed
in a medieval graveyard;
another skeleton enfolded in her pelvic grip
the bundle of tiny bones which killed her.
The graves were gridded and graphed, ending
six centuries curing in the good Loire soil;
wheelbarrows trundled round mounds of bone-flecked earth,
each fragment a domestic, personal tragedy.
The charmer prince Lionheart lies nearby,
casketed at Fontevraud,
as if his bones are different; his death cause
for a separate class of grief.

Broken at birthing or from war's decay -
all ends are too soon for those who leave
and the loving left.

The diggers were quiet, respectful,
but these sleepers were beyond awakening,
their beds now and forever unmade,
and bony mouths unkissed, unkissable.



Copyright © Colin Will, 2000