Dave Bonta's short poem looks at an old cellar hole, the sunken remains of a building that has long since vanished, sitting in the woods under a firethorn. The cellar has been "kept all this while," as if the land itself has been quietly holding on to it. The speaker seems to treat it as a small act of resistance: it stands "like a protest against disquiet," a stubborn bit of stillness in a restless world.
The last lines are the strangest and most striking. To "trepan" is to drill into the skull, and here the cellar hole seems to bore into "the general catalogue of the lost," opening up everything that has been forgotten. A simple hollow in the ground becomes a way into memory and loss.
The mood is hushed and contemplative, tinged with melancholy but also a kind of steadiness. The speaker doesn't seem to grieve loudly; they notice, and let the quiet place speak.