Archaeology David Jibson I come upon it digging in the garden, a rust pitted iron nail, square, made perhaps, in the slitting mill of the very blacksmith who built this house before the civil war. I clean off the crust of clay, turn it in my hand to admire the workmanship of it’s flat head and how the length tapers gradually to a point. I hear the pounding of iron hammer on iron nail, the chatter of workman anxious to finish for the day and pick up a bucket of beer on their way home, one careless enough to drop me this expensive bit of history.
16