The Grauballe Man

As if he had been poured
in tar, he lies
on a pillow of turf
and seems to weepthe black river of himself.
The grain of his wrists
is like bog oak,
the ball of his heellike a basalt egg.
His instep has shrunk
cold as a swan’s foot
or a wet swamp root.His hips are the ridge
and purse of a mussel,
his spine an eel arrested
under a glisten of mud.The head lifts,
the chin is a visor
raised above the vent
of his slashed throatthat has tanned and toughened.
The cured wound
opens inwards to a dark
elderberry place.Who will say ‘corpse’
to his vivid cast?
Who will say ‘body’
to his opaque repose?And his rusted hair,
a mat unlikely
as a foetus’s.
I first saw his twisted facein a photograph,
a head and shoulder
out of the peat,
bruised like a forceps baby,but now he lies
perfected in my memory,
down to the red horn
of his nails,hung in the scales
with beauty and atrocity:
with the Dying Gaul
too strictly compassedon his shield,
with the actual weight
of each hooded victim,
slashed and dumped.