Entrenching Reality

Through sand and pebbles, like a snare brush scratch, while cannon rumble in horizon's flash and hearts of digger's hurried cadence match as song of shovel sings a cymbal's clash. oak handle worn much like a polished cane from calloused hands around the shovel's brow, it glowed in moonlight 'fore the devil's bane, just like a candle on a Christmas bough. In olive drab, the blade like sea-dipped oar, scratched through a mirror in the midnight mud which shook from fear and from the battle's roar and smudged from tincture of a youthful blood. Yet years from now a little child will hold this shovel, and a castle to behold...