They have felt the fingertips of hunters and of kings
and sat for many years with the slick and slimy things,
that bloat the fens of England and haunt American shores,
as common as the locks desecrating every door.
The tiny tips of flint, the glass edges of a club,
the memory of an ancient tribe from old Clacton dug,
The form may be shifting but the intent remains true.
And what we’ve tried to bury, how will it look to you?