and down.

Dr. Morgans hat is blown from his head, the horse swerves, and

curves away

from the sign-post. An oath -- spurs -- a blurring of

grey mist.

A quick left twist, and the gelding is snorting and racing

down the Tilbury road with the wind dropping away behind him.

The stake has wrenched, the stake has started,

the body, flesh from flesh,

has parted. But the bones hold tight, socket and ball,

and clamping them down

in the hard, black ground is the stake, wedged through ribs and

spine.

The bones may twist, and heave, and twine, but the stake holds them

still

in line. The breeze goes down, and the round stars shine,

for the stake

holds the fleshless bones in line.

Twenty years now! Twenty long years! The body

has powdered itself away;

it is clay to clay. It is brown earth mingled with brown

earth. Only flaky

bones remain, lain together so long they fit, although not one bone

is knit

to another. The stake is there too, rotted through, but

upright still,

and still piercing down between ribs and spine in a straight line.

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