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Poem

It was a rite 
for a boy back then,
a stirring that welled up
when the weather 
turned cool and the ground
had been loosened 
with a little rain. Then, 
usually on an autumn day, 
a spade would call 
for a foot to begin 
the annual ritual 
of digging a hole.

Something primal let go
on the first push
of the spade and turn
of a damp sod. 
Each vein of soil was
an encoded message
there to be read.
The easy dig of loam 
would give way to clay,
its soggy weight stuck
to the blade and grew
heavier with each lift.
Rubber boots were held
fast by the suck of mud
and sank deeper
with every shift of foot.
I can remember 
being gripped by a fear
that at any moment
the earth would open
and swallow me up.

My words sounded
a dull echo
against the narrow walls
when the hole
was deeper than my height.
I would grow anxious
at the depth and to go on
would have breached
regions known only
to the dead. That world
was not mine. 
I would fill the hole 
with garden waste
and trash, scattering 
leaves over the scar
as if covering up a crime
against mother earth.

Now, deep in the autumn
of my years, other things
move the soul. The ache
in my foot is not a longing
for a spade or the call
to dig a hole.

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