Ode to Compost

Leaf and rind sit silent
atop the pile of waste
lifeless leftovers lingering
piled together in an organic grave
still sits the mound
quietly surveying the hum of activity
planting, watering, tending, milking, feeding, pruning,
harvesting, dancing, laughing, weeping, hoping
productivity surrounds the pile of refuse
restlessness judges the contemplation of the silent observer
yet in the inner life of that monastic pile
deep in the caverns of trash
the wet sponge of death is wrung out
hyssop and sour wine mixed with goat’s milk and honey
beyond knowing and seeing
the pile teems and turns with
societies of decomposition
This civilization of death and decay
brings life
There is magic at work in the rotten stench
There is mystery to behold
in the watchman of the farm
Lucas M Land
A glorious day, crisp and bright. Yes, the garden beckoned. The compost is bulging - green garden waste in the wooden bins, kitchen waste in the green ones, and there are mighty heaps of other greenery hidden all over the garden. Those are crab apples over flowing. Himself stewed gallons of them - now the crows are enjoying the rest. By the Spring, all this will require turning and examining and hopefully will have turned into rich black compost. Next job, barrowing to the polytunnel. Who knows I might actually grow something in it next year!