Digging into Hell by Patricia Walsh

“Not even interested”, stalls my efforts

banished from his care, even though

I am no more dirtier than most

hatred sunk for reasons I know not.


Taking the wrong milk by accident,

paranoid idiots eat at me

imperfections arise, a medical status

leaves me off the hook, conundrum convenient.


Cutting trowels through swathes, extensive

areas on my own, a good deed

deserves another, borrowing a mattock

small hands make light work, with effort.


No cigarette breaks between breaks,

not breathers digging through ditches,

uncovered stone gold, and bone

dismembered skeletons in a little space.


Some altruistic good can come of this.

Beside motorways and roads, a sacred space

is what has come before, hallowed ground

equated with walling and souterrains.


The catalogue of the disinterred recorded,

running up the sum of most of its parts,

this site served its purpose, keeping us fed

before the peace of progress supreme.



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