Sundial Poem by Seamus O' Brian

The sun circles this tombstone
This sundial of mortified bones
Measuring the interval from birth
‘Til we lay down to rest in the earth.
Each tick of the clock, each tilt of the sun
Is a shovel of dirt when the digging's begun.
An unblinking fire circles o'erhead
A buzzard inspecting the soon-to-be dead
Ignoring each tick of the down running clock
He burned with such haste his larders to stock
With all manner of rubbish that fades, rusts and rots
Never grasping the treasure, each tick of the clock.