A Working Day


We wander up to this whimsical wood,
A path of milky water,
This blanket braced with spores.

When once we heard a dig,
The footsteps of working men,
Soon a discovery is made,
A treasure for his life.

These boots with ancient souls,
The ones who see the end,
Clay dug up and gone,
He blinks once, he blinks twice and trudges away.

What is left behind?
The digs that cry for a home,
While all the streams search,
The work is done here.