Prone (for Ted Hughes)

Two attempts to atone.

I lie prone.
I lie prone.
On my bed of stone,
on my spiky throne
Where I was thrown.
Daggers of bone
Decorate my throne.
It’s only on loan
so I can lie prone.
I can sigh cry, not die, but lie, prone.
If you think I am grown,
then you will be shown.
It is little known
why I, why I, why I lie prone.
Crafty razor blades of bone
jut out of my throne.
They impale this moan, that moan, all moan
so that I can lie prone,
Freezing to stone
if I can’t atone.

Then I will return my throne
to the man of stone –
so unknown yet known.
He will lie prone.
He will lie prone.
Throw the future a bone:
an attempt to atone.
Will he become stone?
His body his own,
so he can’t reach the phone.
Her final moan and her final moan
and that tiny hardly-heard little girl moan
can’t fall out of the phone,
because he will lie prone.
He will lie prone.

Make the future unknown
to the man of stone.
Let him atone,
then leave him alone.

 

© Morney Wilson