This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Manual Labour

Sept 11 2007

You dig a hole

on a hot summer day;

sweat-soaked, flies buzzing.

It starts off easy enough.

Honed steel

knifing through tightly groomed turf.

Then riding the blade

with all your weight

through thick-soled boots.

Then loose soil,

a few worms, frantically squirming.

And underneath, clay

heavy as wet concrete.

When you hit thick roots, going every which way

strong as steel cables.

And rocks, locked in place

since an ice age scoured the land;

the shovel pinging-off

making sparks

as curses scorch the air.

And finally, packed wet earth;

like hauling water

arms out-stretched.

Dig a hole, and fill it in again

makes little sense.

But you feel compelled

to breach that smooth green turf.

To break free,

feeling your muscles strain, shoulders stretch

clenched body ease.

To feel dirt and sweat

on blood-warmed skin,

salt stinging your eyes.

To feel cleansed

through the purification of work.

And to leave a mark

that says you were here,

even a tiny scar

on the earth’s vast surface.

And because

like the next bend in the road

a man wants to know

what’s there.

In the bottom of a hole

in the constant shade

it’s cool and dark.

A tempting place

for a tired man

on a summer day,

cradled in soft loamy soil.