The dragon’s bones lie naked on the road
and over time are overgrown with moss,
the radiant green, the light that overloads
the rattling house, the memory of loss.
The road is strewn with pebbles sharp and keen.
They puncture like a field of hungry teeth.
When caught between the rib and ashen wing,
a young traveller could not move or breath.
I squeeze between the ribs and through the core
to clear a path, to let dead deeper rest.
The pebbles scrape the pan – I sweep up more.
The evening sun stops by, then onward west.
I gather up the last of small grey stones,
softening the danger of these bones.
Questions for reviewers (answer if you'd like!)
1. What do you think is the story or message here?
2. Which lines sound awkward to you? Any suggestions for making them less awkward?