We approached the clean edge of the grave hole
my sister and I.
Mary wound on the film of her new Bakelite Brownie
lining up a sharp picture.
We shouldn’t have seen how naked he was
the rusted arrowhead between his ribs.
Not just left behind, slumped from a battle
but laid out feet to the east in a Christian burial.
An Anglo-Saxon warrior, he was. We could see his teeth.
They took him up out of the ground to the Reading Museum.
He thought he was going to lie on the chalk under the earth
until Christ came.