The dinosaur. Well and truly buried.
A sedimentary relic. Petrified.
Given to the past; a long time slurried,
muddied-over, laid to rest, fossilised.
Entombed worrier. Stabilised in stone.
Imprisoned posture; contorted, compressed,
a calcified temple, chambers of bone.
A cathedral where hides the dragon’s nest.
The lair, from where darkness is cemented
to shadows; re-dressed in fear and loathing.
Where naked bones are re-fleshed. Tormented
skeletons. Cupboards of ghoulish clothing.
. From the dust of bones the dragons rise,
. to be the carriers of cruel demise.
© Tim Grace, 11 March 2013
To the reader: The dinosaurs’ demise was dramatic but to some extent not as final as their stone graves suggest. In miniature, birds (as feathered remnants) and reptiles (as scaled mimics) echo the intriguing traits of their prehistoric ancestors. And without too much stretch of logic it’s easy to see how with a flight of fantasy we’ve invented the mythical dragon. Skeletons and rattling bones can send a shiver up the spine.
To the poet: This sonnet begins with short sharp statements of finality: the dinosaur is dead. And being so, the dinosaur has become a larger than life assemblage of intrigue and fascination. From ‘calcified temples and chambers of bone’ the dinosaur has given birth to the dragon; a cantankerous creature renowned for having a quick and revengeful temper. Some things are best left buried.