Excavation – a poem

The planet is an egg,
waiting to hatch.
The thrill of archaeology,
it lays in excavation.
The penetration of the past.
We unearth secrets unknown till now.
With brushes we brush,
patiently and tender.
The material does render,
is it pottery our a piece of skull,
you are always curious.
The stuff get’s carbon dated,
labeled
put in a museum.
Maybe your name falls during a conversation.
‘Well done, old boy! Nice dig!’
But in your mind you still are digging in the soil.

3 Comments

    1. That’s nice to know, I am also fascinated by it. Digging and finding clues to our past is thrilling. Thank you for reading and have a nice day!

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