He looks enough like my father
To make me feel very guilty
For standing gawping open-mouthed
At the shrunken leather features,
The hands folded neatly as if in prayer,
And the feet poking pathetically
From the unravelling linen.
I like to look but I hate myself
For enjoying it so much.
Empty eye sockets packed with cloth
Gaze blindly and forlornly back,
The worn teeth slightly visible beneath
Withered and blackened lips in rictus smile.
He’s long beyond truly smiling
And even further beyond caring
What I, the onlooker, may see.
To end his existence as an artefact
Encased in a glassy tomb
Seems a form of hell far beyond
Anything he might have expected
Of his promised after-life.
But it is an immortality of sorts.
(this is about another Mummy, one I saw some years ago in Derby city museum. I must write one for Ginger too. )