Compost Piles

Compost Piles
by
Wendy Morton

 
Under the sink: mandarin peels; the pulp of Cylindra beets; carrots.
I take the pail to the compost pile every day.
I lift the black plastic sheet that keeps out the rain.
The cuneiform of worms is blissed in heat.
The year’s first cut grass glistens, steams.
This is my composting collage.
Once I lost a gold bracelet there.
Found it in the spring’s first turning.
This is my memory pile.
I remember the machete shredded stems.
I remember the stale ends of bread.
I remember the striations of my day.


I takes a lot of energy to keep these compost bins going - foreground a heap of cuttings (grass/shredded  branches) that go on the front compost bin and get regularly turned. Behind a covered bin ready to be unwrapped next year, Behind three green bins for kitchen waist - the front two are for garden waste.
 The energy produced though is also impressive - the worms are busy doing their thing and in a year all the manky cabbage leaves. egg shells,  tea leaves, bits of cardboard, rotten veg and other organic stuff will miraculously be transformed into a dark brown tilth which then has to be turned, hoiked out and put, usually, in the polytunnel.

Himself went off early, driving the car very slowly to beyond Cork City to be repaired. He was worried, fearful that it might break down on the notorious Dunkettle roundabout which would result in the whole county coming to a standstill! He got there, no problem, and they were very nice and promised to do their magic asap. What a relief!

Back here, I have worked flat out all day fielding emails from The Artist as we put the finishing touches to the project - sifting through credits, checking on spelling, contacting the custodians, sorting out the logistics of the exhibition, wording the posters and postcards, fretting on whether names with an Ó in them should have an apostrophe (it seems yes) and all that kind of thing. I've also managed to book a rambling man for the exhibition opening!  We met S in Abbeydorney and he finished off the workshop with a marvellous rendition of  Bold Thady Quill. He's promised to do something similar in October.

Wrecked! Himself has stayed up in Cork for we are going off piste for a couple of days to Tipperary  - too right it's a long way (see I've got in first). Finola is picking me up and we shall rendezvous with Himself in the airport hotel before heading off to the Glen of Aherlow. Comments will be sparse and I shall catch up at the end of the week.