At last I lie down
on my back in the narrow
wooden boat, paddle
the underground river – ink
handprints visible
over the claw marks of cave
bears who once had dens
in these Pyrenees foothills
east of Lourdes – and drift
past a factory chimney,
mother and father
arguing in the shadows,
to a dry stone floor,
sanctuary wall, where rears
the nightmare long hidden
above a herd of bison,
a race of reindeer,
snowy owls out of scale.
Lately, when shaving,
I have noted cervid ears,
the bumps of new horns,
the same staring eyes. Flowers
curl at his feet, sharp
thorns stencil his white forehead.