The following poem is about a real person, the grave digger at Great Budworth church (as mentioned in the previous poem). I recently discovered that my nan is still friends with his grand-daughter, so here’s hoping that somebody steers her toward this particular piece!
Hallowed, quiet, peaceful rest
Inside these sandstone walls.
Respect and love follow in
To worship in God’s hall.
The ground is marked and wood pegs set
With string upon the turf
The spade is sharp, the digger strong
As he sinks it in the earth.
The digger fellow is a friendly chap
A laugh and a joke to all,
A stop awhile and talk to me
And a glassfull when I call.
Top sods are off, and in neat pile
The sand spills on the grass
But deeper down he’ll hit the clay
And start to curse at that.
At six feet down he stops to rest
The soil all in a ruck,
He drinks his ale then clambers down
To dig another spit just for look.
His job is done, he checks the size
And moves around the hole
Standing there amidst the soil
Just like a human mole.
That’s it for today, his work is done
Now home to wife and kid
He’ll be back tomorrow though
To lay soil upon that lid.
Hallowed, quiet, peaceful rest
A new soul in that place
Fresh flowers lie upon the ground,
As he meets the Lord, our grace.
That lonely digger if he stops to rest
Leaning on his spade and head on chest,
Sets his eyes to Northwich ever the fieldly green
To see the rising, wafting clouds of Thompson’s steam.
Thompson’s salt from Marston’s clear brine,
Is it pumped from the old flooded mine?
But those stout square chimneys, puffing their smoke
Breathe out steadily as their fires are stoked.
The Saltworks is in Marston village, by the cut
So stop and look, for look you must.
Craig Rathbone - Writer 
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