If Not More

“Beauty is one of the few things about which Cromagnon man knew as much as we do.”
                                         Arthur Koestler, Drinkers of Infinity

Our cave here is comfortable enough
sandy floor, dry walls
danger of rockfalls
but the Dordogne weather isn’t too rough.

All our children wear well-cut bison flay
the wife does good fire.
I’d like to retire
but she says I’d only get in the way.

So it’s keep on clubbing, set trap and snare
long days in the woods.
I know all its moods
read its smells, sounds, small changes in the air.

My favourite time is Muyt, when the leaf dries
and comes down the tree.
It is telling me
the light one day won’t open my dawn eyes.

The wife points out some leaves stay green all year
“Life might continue
at least for the few
who obey Sun and Moon laws while we’re here.”

I’m not much of one for such discussion:
water where it flows
fire to warm toes
a wall for art, tight skin for percussion.

The offspring want us to move up a rung
modernise the cave
like the neighbours have
cook with clean wood, not dried buffalo dung.

I preach to them, as any father ought.
Beauty, I explain,
dwells not in the brain:
“By a deer, by snow, by sunrise be taught.”