The Digging Man (Poetry)

I see in dreams my father’s spade —
that shiny curve of sharp-edged steel
that always hung between two nails
next to the fork, the hoe, the rake
and last in line a pair of shears
cleaned-off all tidy in a row
his tools in that dim shed.

Odd times I hear that ‘thunk’ again —
the sound his spade made cleaving through
clay-heavy earth and every grunt
that followed as he turned each clod
and breathed anew its fresh damp smell
wafting up the garden path
to where I played with pots of soil.

I wonder if he knew I watched
him as he laboured long and hard —
I understood in some small way
that effort equalled all he could
show of love — the digging man
too distant then — more distant now
who planted seed and buried words.

He never told me anything
of what he felt — his deepest thoughts
his hopes and dreams for years interred
the spade knew where — its curving smile
shines enigmatic — haunts my sleep
its wooden handle warm to touch
his ghost still stubborn hides so much.