The dverse prompt is ‘soil’ in all its many aspects and senses. I think I’m going to change this free verse to a haibun.
Digging, here, is wrestling with the arms of history, the roots put down and withered, rolled up and moved on. Trowel scrapes against the rocks and pebbles of other lives, and the old bones of beloved pets. Spikes of rust, chink and clink, hinges from some long-rotted door, nails massive as construction bolts, the pins of decay.
Digging in bulbs and seeds, re-potting, planting, sifting through the layers of dust and waste, we play at creation in our city gardens full of death. Memories crowd of so many ephemeral hands, digging, trowelling through the nuts and bolts, the stones and broken glass of forgotten projects.
Digging. We hope and dream.
And always, when the spring rains come, the dust flourishes.
Handfuls of sharp noise,
brittle bottle tops rusting,
beneath, seeds struggle.