Recently I have devoted a small patch of my garden
to an off-kilter project; an excavation executed with only
a red plastic spade and battered, yellow tin bucket.
As the hole deepens, earth, stones and bugs are discarded,
while man-made finds are placed in the pail for further
investigation. Fragments of patterned pottery, coins
a beer can and pieces of brittle, weathered plastic
have so far all been painstakingly cleaned and stored.
What am I looking for, you ask? I’m unsure; I just know
that I misplaced something vital before the age of twelve,
and intuitively I know to seek it there. Slowly I am coming to
realise that the act of digging might well be what I’m after.


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