You know that corner at the bottom of the garden?
Next to the chookpen and overshadowed
by the gum tree?
We’ve been talking about doing something with it
for three years now –
cubbyhouse for the kids,
shed for my tools that are still in cardboard boxes,
shed for storing all our old stuff
that we can’t throw away.
Lovely thoughts, but all just talk.
Let’s do something.
Now.
I want to shove my hands into the organic waste
of potato peeling, greasy greaseproof paper,
sour milk, used tea bags,
last night’s dinner,
porridge the kids didn’t want,
burnt bits from the bottom of the frying pan,
egg shells, orange pulp,
and let the mess squelch through my fingers
like a private swamp.
I want to rub it on my face
and use it as moisturiser to make my skin
soft, clear and smooth.
Not to mention that scent –
eau de compost. Rare and imported.
Let’s make a compost heap and call it ours.
In the bottom corner of the garden,
worms can have their paradise,
I can have my private swamp,
and we can all smell of
eau de compost.
YOU ARE READING
Afflatus
PoetryYou are my divine poetic inspiration. To breathe, to blow air through my lips. flāre afflāre afflātus. You are my divine afflatus. *- This is my third collection of poetry. The other two are Parts of Me and Butterfly Ripples. Please be kind enough n...