Amitchell125, "Sutton Hoo burial ground," 2013
The barrow is breathing out. Those past lives we’ve cast off into a bin, onto a mud hill for burial slowly transform into a methane sigh. The flagger helps us pull the load off, and we commiserate with his working on the holiday weekend when he should be drinking a beer. He’s our guide in this land of dead things and I want to give him a coin for the passage, but no time, he’s on to the next, stepping lightly over scrap wood, a child’s ball. A tumulus, all swollen, ripe with the detritus of our material, man-made world—we can feel it shifting and exhaling like a dozy pig the size of a mountain, flatulent, grunting barrow-dreams in its sleep.