THE BONE HOUSE

By Clare Marsh

A pinched ribbon of land clings

between Hallstätter See and sheer

Dachstein mountains, where September

mist rolls down forest slopes to shroud

Michaelskapelle Charnel House.

Tourists enter the ossuary’s barrel vault

in dread, but Halstatt’s former inhabitants

arrayed ten deep in orderly rows

appear an expectant audience.

Empty sockets stare out from faces

which smile their welcome – minus

lower mandibles and most teeth.

Allowed a scare decade in the grave

to make way for the more recently departed

bones were exhumed, cleaned, bleached

ivory by the sun, then skulls were painted

with a black cross, name and date

of decease, to become memorials.

Decorated with oak for glory,

laurel for victory, pink roses denote love.

Wreathed with green leaves of oleander

ivy on their temples, glossy as when their best china

was displayed on polished dresser shelves.

Priests are elevated on Bibles,

under the crucifix, flanked by candles.

Femurs stacked around side walls.

Families arranged in close knit groups –

the Sidlers, Koglers, the Fischer Wesenauers.

Neighbours packed cheekbone by half jowl.

The last to join them has the snake

of death slithering across her skull

and her remaining gold canine glints.

This memento mori should terrify

with the inevitability of levelling death

but  after that ancient door is secured at night

this pall of silence will surely be broken

by the sociable clamour of village voices.

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