Wednesday, May 09, 2007


Feet push pogo
stirruped to the blade
I lift a square of spade-sliced
turf, uncover shallow loam
the lighter coloured clay beneath
I start to heap
where it accumulates
the rhythm,
lift and turn
a stubborn root, I've ragged cut
a rock that interrupts
the crowbar probes, the edge
to widen and to shift
the larger stones
the sides drop showers of dust
a metre down, a little more perhaps
the crowbar rings a sharper note
the rocky bed presents, exposed.

This satisfying empty space
so elemental simple
so soon resolved
in spade-work and in sweat
in crumbled debris cone, in whole.


Inconsequential said...

sounds like a big deep hole...

not just planting daffodils then...


gautami tripathy said...

The crowbar did me in. Sucker for any kind of lever..:D