Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones

“Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare,
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And cursed be he that moves my bones.”

 

How often did I studiously fail

to untangle your brier patch of words.

Encouraged by my teachers to prevail

in setting free the frustrated songbirds,

so that their melody could swell the heart

of English folk's rich tapestry of life,

and each actor could undertake the part

of king or fool in comedy or strife.

 

Four hundred years have passed and here I stand

upon your simple worn and trampled stones

and read the curse you placed upon the hand

who would dare take away your buried bones.

In that poetic threat I see at last

the future reaching back to touch the past.