That bird awaiting upturned worm,
with eagle eye but robin’s breast,
just cocked his head as watched for squirm
amongst rich compost I’d laid down.
Dripped ghee tips, asparagus spear,
tough marrow gourds from bonemeal spread,
once pods of bean rows, yesteryear,
tap, leaf, cob discard, stalk, skins shaved.
Between its swoops, the waiting game,
he played tame to negotiate,
though chasm scale, our patience same,
for he clod turn, me tilth for growth.
Though he would harvest as I sowed
thoughts ‘Are you the seed or the soil?’;
my packets scattered, pantry stowed,
that patch grown, eaten, scraps for loam.
The actions of today bear fruit –
my feathered friend has been served well,
and with due blessing, root and shoot,
crop season cycle, table top.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com