Sledgehammered, my crowbar tears,
levers flints from soil newly wet.
I pile their cut faces
scores of stone skulls quarried,
when grubbing out privet.
By tools I’m hedged about:
a pickaxe prises, loosens,
for spade to cut and clear.
Two forks, saw and secateurs
complete my corps of weapons.
Embedded roots wrenched free,
I hear your weakening grip,
ready myself a last heave
on that stubborn tap, and guess
my ego’s backward trip.
ix.2000
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