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Bury me in Yorkshire’s earth,
Beneath a line of loam,
Reclining in a cardboard box,
Until my bones grow cold and old.
Smashed in violent winter becks,
In summer I am flecks in silt,
My fingers squashed in cloying clay,
Smeared and spread like nebulae,
That held me before I was formed,
And coughed me outwards to be born.
Above the grassy eiderdown,
That hides my scattered teeth,
Stand limestone molars piercing turf,
The headstones that I’m not beneath.
In lignum, staying wind-strained trunks,
In scum I float on flaccid ponds,
Friends sluice me down enamelled troughs,
Leaning filled with ale and warmth,
In death, at peace and truly blessed,
Nought I’ll be yet all the rest.
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