By Andrew R. Duckworth
This old, broken wooden bucket,
Left over from a time when they didn’t pay for water,
And the land was their supermarket,
And wild deer was their high cuisine.
These old impressions from a thing long passed,
Built to feast and built to last,
Echo a story of teeth and feet
In a dried out portion of shallow stream.
This bow for arrows, broken in two,
Left over from wars of a distant age,
Left a mark centuries back
And the remains still tell the story.
Echoes of old lives are ours
To contemplate over the hours
And recreate a world that came before
Our first steps on the world stage.