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.
Originally posted 2005-09-03 19:22:07. Republished by Blog Post Promoter