5000 Year Old Man (discovered intact in Europe)
... A Poem
It was late fall, winter's edge,
too late to graze the flock
on mountain slopes.
No hawk circled on the heights.
We should have been in the valley now.
I lay down in a sheltered place,
a ravine, a kind of moraine.
My journey had been long,
my goats attacked, dispersed
by panther and by bear;
their prey the kid to young to run,
the brave but foolish buck,
one charge too many to protect.
I lay down in my deerskin shirt and pants,
hair-side out, pulling my rush-woven cloak
about me, deerskin boots stuffed
with dry grass to blunt near-winter's bite.
I dozed, I dreamed...
of darkest void and misty night
shot through with brilliant, blinding light
like streams of stars, great bursts of sun,
the roaring cave-mouth fire
that shoots its orange and yellow sparks
likes swarms of summer gnats and flies,
like stars that fall in mountain nights...
I wish I had my cave tonight.
I wish I had its warmth,
the flame of fire and close-packed flesh...
the snow began to softly fall
and in his sleep
he dreamed of warmth...
He looks between his mother's heavy legs at flames
that climb the roasting rabbit his father slew,
staring at the orange, the green and blue,
beneath a pile of gentle skins
softened by his mother's chew
that yet contain the spirit of the deer
as the marmot's golden burrow grass
still holds the warmth of August passed...
The marmot in its darkened den
has bid farewell to light and sun
and lies with hands on breast
like otter holding fish or shell
while swimming on its back.
Gopher teeth protrude from parted lips'
slow-sounding snores of deep content,
summer's graze of leaf and root
turned fat, well-cushioned ribs
beneath a thick and lustrous coat.
The matted grass that softens burrow earth
rustles when the marmot turns in dreams
of tart, sweet herbs and harmony,
sun-warmed rocks and flesh,
the springtime promise yet to be,
sunny sprawl and play,
the sharp, quick stab of searing heat
in search and finding of a mate.
I, too, turned but few times in my sleep,
but unlike the marmot in its dreams,
hugged tight my skins and cloak
in tired confusion's vain attempt
at warmth, covering my head with reeds,
joining deep marmot thoughts, ant and pebble thoughts
of moss and snow, goats and distant gods,
times that never were
and could never be again.
The snow that slowly covered him,
like down on geese, was warming
for a time,
like piles of hides and skins
that from the bear protected him
when snuggled under as a child
looking past his mother's legs
at the rabbit roasting in the flames.
But not warm enough.
Deeper, deeper the silent, hissing snow,
until his slowly breathing body
was but a mound of white,
and then the ravine was level with the slope.
A million geese would have to die
for such a downy harvest.
Soon his breathing slowed and stopped,
then started once again,
like waking from a dream,
to slow and stop once more,
to stop and dream forever,
lying on his side,
left arm under his head...
He lay and he lay in time's embrace,
and a great cold came
that turned the snow to ice.
He was entombed in ice,
a trap geese always seek to flee,
breaking through their earthly tie,
the sloth of time and place,
by leaping to the sky,
the stars' eternal call, and space.
His sleep was the dream of life and death.
Shadowed shafts of light and whirling walls
of mist and doubt and hope and night
played out their timeless mix,
his woven strand of fiber rope,
his cups and case of bark around him laid,
until 5000 years had passed,
a moment in the universe,
unlikely, endless span to man,
and he was found by mountain hikers
peering out of melting ice...
They thought me one of them, at first,
dead by foul play, accident.
I look much like you,
but I think I am not much like you.
I am from another time, another race,
a place unknown, forgotten;
not a better one, I'll grant,
younger, but no worse than yours,
from what I see with head and eyes
now clear of ice.
But I do not pretend to remember,
myself. I'm not sure I recall the stars,
the swift, loud crack of partridge wings,
the squeal of goats young in spring,
butting play and joy of mountain living,
flowers, grass, hot sunshine, bees,
and bears and panthers, of course,
always the panther and the bear.
I am getting tired now.
I think I will sleep again
if only the snow will fall
and gently let me sleep once more...
He lay in brilliant solitude in timeless snow and ice,
if free from wriggling maggot frenzy,
like myriad pale puppies that squirm for love,
And janitorial jaws of ever-searching ants,
then surely beyond the reach of nosy gods and man...
I dream, I dream of time and space...
The light, the light, the light.
Copyright by Don Gray
Don Gray Art • Poems
