GOLD OR GLORY

Me once: slumped in a deckchair out the back,
Reading a wholesome Reader’s Digest book
Which told the story of Heinrich Schliemann
Gazing upon the face of Agamemnon –
Only, he hadn’t; his discovery
Went further back than that.
                                                         My own history
Had its funeral mask – hardly gold, rather
The skin over the cheekbones of my father,
Not that his death was openly acknowledged:
Even a truth that’s glaring can be dodged.
My dig for it, careful and conscientious
(Unlike old Heinrich’s) unearthed only dross.

A snooze in the sun, by dint of alchemy,
Has made it shine, at least. A moment’s glory.