| Jane Satterfield | ||||
| Anthem for Doomed Youth | |||||
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Exhumed bog burial in the British Museum, thought to be the remains of an Iron Age Prince. All morning I tried to see it as birth: your stepping away, simply an idea of progress, a better life; a leap that left no room for regret, no glance back over the shape you shed, the landscape's abundant ground cover. Instead, I look out into absence, the skyline blotted from view. What refuge is there in distance if the horizon dissolves just like that? Once I stood with the others, there at the casement, drawn to an image, an eyeful of death. And the body brought back to this side: junked leather in a museum case. I'll wonder forever what led you to follow; what knowledge you last fed upon; what was gained the moment the step that should not have taken was taken. | ||||
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