Digger
Digger I always knew that I was becoming What I had wanted to be. By the calouses on my hands And by the worn curved blade on my trowel. The blade I used to slice the ground Soils of colours. Reddish Browns and greenish greys. Sands and clays, silts and grits. To every soil it's own sound Its own vibration Resonant with the stroking of my trowel. Cool damp smells Are trapped with me In the bottom of the trench Chalky bright and clinical Sand sweet and mellow Rotting vegetation dark and over ripe (Passing over quickly the toxic airs I've known) Sometimes I salivated When my blade cut through the soil Like a knife scooping butter From a butterdish. ( I still do when I think of it) With warm sunshine on my back Sound of birdsong in the woods nearby. My straight sided trench Spoil tip raised one side And the grass topping the layers In the carefully cleaned up section face. Showing horizontal bands Of colour and texture Broken and created By stones rocks and bricks The enduring ...