Out again with the pitchfork churning
compost into the old green bin, stinking
and silent as an ancient earthen vat.

Here, dirt makes no distinction
between trench beds and the twirling earth.
Onion shavings conspire to life

by bringing fresh tears to our eyes.
The whole rotting heap hushes
over the tunnelling of pink worms

and it is a war kept close to the weeds;
potato skins kissing dried dandelion leaves
as if to clothe a skeleton key.

It’s best we shush. Pigeons
have occupied the neighbour’s clothesline,
and the evening’s keen to keep a lid on it

Ash Bowden is a Halifax based poet whose work has previously appeared in The Cherita and Confluence, and he is seeking more publications to work his way towards publishing a pamphlet. He can be found on Instagram @ashbowpoet, on bluesky @ashbowpoet.bsky.social and on Facebook at Ash Bowden Poet.