The trench is still waiting for me

In the dream I keep returning to the same unfinished trench — the walls are the colour of warm coins, and at the bottom there's water rising that I never quite remember filling it. I stand at the edge with my trowel and my notebook, cataloguing things I've already catalogued, and every time I wake I feel I've been waiting rather than digging. Last night the water reached the first course of stones and I thought, good, let it come.