Waiting For The Grave Poem by Tony Adah

That hot afternoon
He who made raised earth
An abode where seed yams live
And died and resurrected died
Piggishly, he grunted making them
And dead came stopping his toils
Prostrate and lying silent
Folks roared
Trees stood still
Everyone died alive
With dead death on their heels.
The news flew home
Folks young and old mourned
And at night he woke again
They saw him amongst the yard trees
When at night they went to wee
But he laid still
Not a rib raised from the cage
They ran back
Huddled themselves by the door
Still he rested from the mounds
Under the rains and the sun
Waiting for his grave.