When the parish church of St Giles underwent repairs
in the summer of 1790, Milton's coffin was disinterred.
Rumours of the subsequent violation of his corpse are
apocryphal.
Too long have I knocked my head against your tombstone.
In rooms stale as museums, I grew drunk on preserved air,
but with every exhalation you thinned into mist.
So I cultivated an acquaintance with dealers in dead things.
Through the scarred body of your desk, the pitted leather of your chair,
I have willed myself down too well, too well.
I have nibbled at pages on which you have written.
And when all I embraced clouded to dust, I still trembled with hope –
perhaps that was your spirit, thickening the air.
But the dust slowly settled and the world remained mute.
And then –
I could not resist this company of wolves
gathered quiet as stones on the church's voiceless floor.
That dumb black mouth, we would have it speak.
Then what would it say? What won't it tell us?
This earth, these worms, hold the secret of your bones.
I would take a handful of your soil home with me
and plant my seeds in your own rich loam.
And now, prising open the secret locked of your tomb,
we will read you like a hieroglyph.