Relic

(Found here)

I’d rather take this road

to that chapel of larch on the hill

but my boy insists, so we step
into a nave of pines

screened by webs
where sound falls dead,

except for the rattle of cones.
Each breath is sealed with resin:

he finds a long bone,
lifts it from the needles:

fox or maybe badger, I tell him
taking his hand

suddenly aware
of our temporary skins.

~Roy Marshall