Lindow Man

My dear.
I am afraid.
I am unfaithful.
He was the first.
I had never been so close
to another man before.
Close enough
to caress
the two-day stubble
on his leathered face.
To gently stroke
the hand-stitched edge
of his bog-soaked hood,
and to sample the fibres
of the rope that choked out his life
before they threw him into history.
For me to love,
my dear,
I am afraid
he was not the last.

 Elaine Speakman

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