Sunday, 10 December 2017

Time travel in the garden, by the compost:

In this slice of soil,
balanced in the spade
held near its blade
by my right hand,
tiny worms wriggle;
vampires exposed to light.

The dirt is moist
wood broken down, leaves and refuse too,
everything decomposed, made new;
ready for the seed to find sympathy with the moon,
shatter the shell, let loose a tendril,
open two petals; solar panels
long before we built a road or a city.

This afternoon, as the sun
hung so low the edge of the world
caught fire, I fill
two large pots; ready
for two olive trees.

I can taste the sea already and imagine
ancient Greece, goat’s cheese
and baked bread; the warrior
on his haunches chews
and swallows before the walls of Troy.

Greek and Trojan bodies
become soil, end differences
unassailable when they breathed.

Worms come to feast;
hidden in the dark
until the spade slides through years
and in my back-yard they wriggle;
I can taste the fruit
before the trees have been planted.

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