Dog, Dancing

This is a long thought-about poem. I've been trying to find a way of expressing the pointless anger and emptiness of a bad day - and to articulate Monty Don's ideas about gardening and its therapeutic effects on depression. This is not intended to be autobiographical - I tend to walk into the garden full of happy anticipation. But perhaps when I am in a black mood, it'll be me...

It's meant to emulate Anglo-Saxon verse. Two stresses in each half line and alliteration in each line. It doesn't always, but I don't altogether care. In fact, in one or two places, I depart from it for effect. Does it work?

I scratch at my back with broken nails,
fingers filthy from daggered earth,
set about the dark, damp soil,
driven, dogged by blackening day.

Blisters burst: red, raw skin
my empty anger’s battleground.
Fork-hit flint flies, shatters
silence, scatters shrapnel.

I claw at the crumbling crust,
heavy-handed, clutch stems,
rip roots, drag them out,
throw them at my dancing dog.

My dog. Half-bred friend
who sees my mood, cowers,
comes back, sniffs out
my company, betters me.

I bow and dig, back bent,
head low, heaviness lightening.
Hacking at the hurting earth
but breathing easier, slower.

Breathing cold, whispering soft,
holding hard words in my head.