Digging graves with our teeth

Stomach growling, mouth watering, anticipation of hunger sated, thirst slaked,
the gut feelings running the long track from first Man to us,
the gnawing at the bones, reducing vision to a tunnel of survival.

Fruit plucked wormy from trees, shells, carapaces snatched from waves and rocks,
prised apart with stones, slick with slime, slicing finger-flesh.

Hunting, the bite of cold, searing sand beneath bare feet, sinews,
muscles unenrobed in fat, and death dogging each step, but no going back.

How long that road, rock-strewn, of life on knife edge, to this, living to eat,
to wallow in superfluity, excess, and the Romanesque decadence
of throwing peacocks’ tongues to the dogs.