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Poets and artists

The Man Who Wants to Make Himself a Fossil

He begins
to organise his death.
He’s researched it
and he knows it should be wet
so considers:-
jumping ship
on a round the world cruise;
a fall from a narrow boat
into the cut;
pedalling a pedalo
into a storm.
But,
when the time comes to choose,
he opts for
boating lake,
a drowning amongst ducks,
an economy package
to suit his pocket.
(A pocket he will be sure
to fill with stones).
He makes another note on his
‘to do’ list:-
“Carry excess baggage.”
He stops to think;
he’s pretty sure
he’s got enough
to make him
sink.

Sink
to rock bottom,
to where scavengers
lie in wait
to eat his flesh.
Eels will move in first;
stirring clouds of silt.
Clouds, which will settle
on his body like depression.
To maintain a
good coverage,
he’s pre-arranged
a regular dumping party
so-called friends and family
are to bring
bags of household waste,
garden rubbish,
sacks of
“See, I told you so”,
and “I knew he’d
amount to nothing.”
There will be
layer upon layer
of these deposits;
the weight of words
ensuring
he stays
down.

Down
beneath
the pressure
of the sediment
his body will be
waiting
for decay,
for chemicals
to react,
the chance
to change.
He’s well aware
that undermining
can’t be hurried
and
mineral infusion
can be subject
to delay.
It may take
a thousand years
or more
for transformation.
He’s convinced himself
that he won’t feel a thing
that
being petrified
is nothing to be
scared of.

Scared of
not being found
he turns to prayer,
“Please God give me
seismic intervention.
Please God give me
movement in the plates.
Please God let me rise
above the surface.”
He pauses,
decides to finish
with some thanks.
“Thank you Lord
for giving us
erosion,
for cliff collapse
and rock hammers.
Amen.
Oh, and God bless,
palaeontologists
and geologists.”
And then
he aims an extra prayer
towards St Barbara
asking
for
maximum
exposure.

Exposure,
is the key
that he yearns for;
his rock copy
on display
in a museum.
He believes a fossil
is a state
of preservation
where feelings, faults and failings
can’t be seen;
an incarnation
to inspire
only wonder
about the who
or what or how
he might have been.
Lack of certainty
is endless possibility
where new
interpretations
might be gleaned.
And so he pins
his hopes on second chances;
a duck pond death,
the point
where he
begins.