. . .
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Read the rest.
Today I'm inclined to reflect that ultimately each of us digs, daily, with the tool that best fits his hand, his own grave. Thank God for the people who dig with such art that we can stand the rest of our own lives contemplating the holes they leave.