A Grave Problem

The slope is grave with gravity, the grave
Beneath my slipping feet begins to loom
As a monstrous form in the dark. I save
The Critical words for critical tombs,
That is to say for times when they matter.
But as I slip I cannot say what I
Mean to say to my mother dear. Hatter
Mad, from Alice and Wonder land would die
To think that I said anything sober
And implied with said saying that mother
Was wrong in her findings: disclosure.
I would say nothing, but I must deter
From the path that now looms before my feet.
Call out our mothers, can sons do such feats?

                                 A Grave Problem, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012