#387: The Hole

We found it round the back when we moved in.
It's bottomless. Near thirteen feet across,
sides smooth-worn stone. It yawns there like the den
of some gigantic worm. We're at a loss
to give it explanation.

                       Some dark nights,
when there's no moon, I take my rusted spade
and toss in fill, imagining dim lights
down in its depths. It's an illusion, made
of stars and cool, still water, says the wife.
But there's no water here.

                         It takes its toll.
Sometimes I swear to God I feel the pull
of some force down below that wants my life.

I keep on tossing dirt into that hole.
I don't believe it ever will get full.