You Have to Dig Deep

Sometimes it’s not enough to scratch the surface,

because grass always grows back and besides,

bare soil just makes a seedbed where anything

could take root. You have to dig deep. And to dig

deep, you need a good spade, with a sharp blade

that you scrape the clay from as you go,

and the spade sunk and levered just so

against your knee, under the lug of your boot,

will slice and the earth will release its funk

as you scalp the cap of sod and heap rich loam 

like fruitcake on afternoon tea china. Later

you will need a pickaxe which you can swing

above your head and let its own forged weight 

embed it in hard ground, and if you do this right, 

the thing will do the work for you, the only price

it will exact will be blisters on your palms and

the smooth wood handle grows dark and wet

as your body fluids leak with every heft.

It will be worth it to see bedrock shatter beneath 

the hard beak’s peck. In weeks to come 

your palms will thicken and callous

until you forget that your hand ever held

a pen, or a child’s hand. The pit you dig

will be wide as well as deep, for how else

can you wield the pick, you must climb

down there to stand within the maw,

and if it is winter, shadows will fall across 

the hole you labour in, and you will also forget 

about roots and leaves and anything soft. 

When you dig deep you come to stone, and water

seeps cold around your boots; your bones

ache from the shock of iron hitting rock,

your skull beats and rings like a struck bell.

You have long ago forgotten why you left behind

your home, your children, rainbows—

maybe coal, maybe gold, buried deep, calling.

Rose Lennard