Al Maginnes: The Skeleton Parade
Old legend whispers them, bent-backed, crook-kneed from the nest
of their military graves
in the low-ground cemetery by the river. They hobble a clacking
cadence whose time
no mortal can count as they parade the lip, fleshless sentries assigned
to the endless river,
parody of the military formations they once were. They vanish from sight
at the instant one believes
they are visible. I knew some who lived near that river, who ventured
in search of their parade
in the hours when churches lock their doors. And one told stories of an uncle
who’d been in wars,
who had visited places where there are festivals for the dead. Each family
cooks the best feast
it can afford, welcomes anyone who comes to the door. Later there is drinking
and dancing in streets
crowded with bodies. But the dead have their own music and march forth
only once a year.
Their dance is tied to a calendar we can’t read. So no one sees them on
the proper night, allowing
the story another year to age. And those who have left youth behind stay away,
knowing that soon enough they will
join that procession and walk on bones softened with mud, gone weak between
what is unsure and what is unseen.
Copyright 2018 Al Maginnes
.
Skeleton Parade by Ruth Olivar Millan
Marvellous.
Brings to mind a Robert Aickman story – the Real Road to the Church.
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