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.