We would stand there waiting, hoping,
our grip on a wooden handle, ‘T’ shaped,
with the other hand on the mid life,
ready to lift something weighty
off the mind, not that we knew it back
then. A mix of sand, water, cement.
Tumbling along, moaning, groaning, as
you tilted the shovel plate, hearing the
sloppy sigh of release from the turn of things,
Ticking by with every mouth load, kneed
the mix. Then wait for the chance to
bond, build from what it gave you.
Before a shoulder lift and fill,
grip the handle, raise the hope along
with every bump of the one tyre wheelbarrow.
Gareth Culshaw is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something special with the pen. He loves Snowdonia, books, dogs, walking, and nature.