Hope the Digger
Hope is a thing that burrows,
A relentless pioneer:
It ploughs its endless furrows
As long as the way is clear.
When it hits a rock, it hesitates:
Remove? Over, under? Go round?
Deciding, it never procrastinates
But pushes on through the ground.
Hope isn't fancy or flight.
Hope is stubborn resistance
In the face of what isn't right.
It's unjustified, dogged persistence.
Hope doesn't soar on wings.
Like the mole, it tunnels, blind,
Through the dirt and the muck that clings,
As it tosses the dross behind.
Hope conserves its breath
When there's not a lot of air,
Around it, the stench of death,
But its claws fight against despair.
Hope keeps the goal in mind
As it digs on through the night.
In the darkness, it seems to be blind,
But somewhere, at the end, there is light.