I fear to look down

through the boghole

into the engine room

and to see

instead of hot activity

an excavated spoil heap

 

      hollowed out

by repetition where the sun

cannot reach.

 

The deeper it goes the darker

and the well of inspiration

like a dried up beach

 

where only scavengers will go

with their tiny patter of effort

repulsive and rejected

turning over only the expected.