The Gravedigger Poem by Barry Middleton

I was no philosopher
and not the master digger.
I took no pride and did not
understand the job I did.
Old Craig, the lazy digger,
gave advice and laid it out.
And Hubert, the artist of the crew,
would take a sharpened spade
to even up the sides and make
them true. Howard and I,
or brawn and useless intellect,
would throw the slack from
out the hole and cut a little deeper
down till we were told to stop.
I did not understand the fuss
and careful contemplation
of the pit, not as long as the
coffin fit. But I was just
eighteen, too young to realize
that this was art, the final
mark a man would cause
upon the earth, the ditch
unlike the others that would
be re-dug and altered
by the years and whims
of other workers. No, this
was permanent work for
pay, the likes of which
is hard to find today.