by Kate Foley

Slumbering on my mantelpiece
the Fat Lady from a Maltese tomb.

She doesn’t have to prove anything
or ever wake up.

Heaped as a croissant
whatever caused her to lie down forever

has left only a trace of red
ochre. Her neighbour,

the Hooded Lady, carved from the horn
of an unimaginable beast,

no longer smokes with cold
or listens to the bone flute

play a tune we’ll never know
if we’ve remembered

or reinvented.
Stone tools or pixels.

Tracks of long dead silences.
A bell ringing underwater.