Dripping with
sweat and hunching his back,
digging six foot down and long as deep,
the digger does
his day’s drawn work
and toils in the soil that one might sleep.
His arduous job
seems a waste to him.
Hours to dig
what minutes can
fill
and the customer
smiles not - yet anyway,
lying unhelpful, unwatching and still.
Heaving the
sand and ageing,
angry at wasted
days dug by,
ponderously
burying the sorrows of others;
many graves will he leave at his time to die.
The burial is
important to the dearly beloved,
but to him its a
hole to be dug and recovered.
Copyright © Jason
Horsler
20/10/93 - Studying Shakespeare at school helped me
fall in love with the sonnet form of poetry.
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