Norman Buller
Eager Tomb
Prime for death’s curfew,
our secret atrocities
already gather.
Our history shadows us
like an eager tomb, our grave
already dug but unseen.
The forbidding hill,
on waking, is always there.
Each day ends; I’m still
this side of it. Night forgets;
I wake, there it is, waiting
to be climbed, day after day.
We hoard somewhere the
bilge and molten gold of our
experience. So,
when we cease, what can it do
but ebb to source, like water
to water where ripples fade?
Page(s) 82
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