A Poor Man's Archaeology Poem by Mark Heathcote

I recall excavating ash-dark earth
-and then that silly sudden happy mirth,
smooth brown 'stoneware' uncovered, still interred.
Excitement, ever so slightly deferred.

Knee-deep; in Dog-Wood, diggings like a mole
hillocks-all-over the show—black as coal
and in my hands a piece of history,
forcing it out ever so gingerly,

And a question mark hovers -is it entire?
Will it rest on my shelves as a survivor?
in my kitchen with two dozen others
Edwardian, Victorian brothers.

Dumps can yield much paraphernalia
and-digging-it-up-finds you no royal regalia.
But bottle-diggers find hand-blown treasure
even-small-ointment-ones without measure.

-are intrinsically a special tell-tale
as they've survived something more than airmail.
Or the dumping in an old chamber pot
they just sentimentally mean a lot.