Still digging

I kept digging. Apart from the photographs, tiny vases came up with the shovel, of all different colours. One had 'Portugal' painted on it, with flowers and squiggles. There was something that looked like a collection of four leaf clovers in a plastic wallet, and I stopped to remember how my father used to spend an hour every Sunday looking for those himself. Never did find any but had a good life anyway. I wonder if the person who belonged to these had been lucky? Ah, here's a bone, a grey yellow little thing, like out of a leg. Now that looks like a booklet coming up this time. What's it got on the cover ... Diary ... 1947 ...