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...
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