Archaeology

       The archaeologist's spade
       delves into dwellings
       vacancied long ago,

       unearthing evidence
       of life-ways no one
       would dream of leading now,

       concerning which he has not much
       to say that he can prove:
       the lucky man!

       Knowledge may have its purposes,
       but guessing is always
       more fun than knowing.

       We do know that Man,
       from fear or affection,
       has always graved His dead.

       What disastered a city,
       volcanic effusion,
       fluvial outrage,

       or a human horde,
       agog for slaves and glory,
       is visually patent,

       and we're pretty sure that,
       as soon as palaces were built,
       their rulers

       though gluttoned on sex
       and blanded by flattery,
       must often have yawned.

       But do grain-pits signify
       a year of famine?
       Where a coin-series

       peters out, should we infer
       some major catastrophe?
       Maybe. Maybe.

       From murals and statues
       we get a glimpse of what
       the Old Ones bowed down to,

       but cannot conceit
       in what situations they blushed
       or shrugged their shoulders.

       Poets have learned us their myths,
       but just how did They take them?
       That's a stumper.

       When Norsemen heard thunder,
       did they seriously believe
       Thor was hammering?

       No, I'd say: I'd swear
       that men have always lounged in myths
       as Tall Stories,

       that their real earnest
       has been to grant excuses
       for ritual actions.

       Only in rites
       can we renounce our oddities
       and be truly entired.

       Not that all rites
       should be equally fonded:
       some are abominable.

       There's nothing the Crucified
       would like less
       than butchery to appease Him.

       CODA:

       From Archaeology
       one moral, at least, may be
       drawn,
       to wit, that all

       our school text-books lie.
       What they call History
       is nothing to vaunt of,

       being made, as it is,
       by the criminal in us:
       goodness is timeless.