John McCullagh September 3, 2005
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We cut the sod. We dug the heavy mould

To bare the stones which stronger folk have laid

Over their tunnelled dwelling.


Pick and spade

Reminded shoulder, forearm, we grew old,

Save for the lad whose easy gestures told

That this was something near his daily trade.

Absolved by age, the nodding farmer made

A ready bet we’d crack no crock of gold.

 

When the large stone was scraped, was bared to light

And shifted as the soil began to spill

In sandglass trickle slowly out of sight,

As the dark passage beckoned, deep and still,

For a hushed spell no crock of gold could buy

We brinked the silent pit of mystery.

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