The Daily Inkling asks which low tech skill we would be able to use after the apocalyptic outage. All I’d be good at I think is gardening.
The earth calls and clings
to fingers that scrabble where
roots dig and tangle.
Sap rises, boughs bend in the wind,
leaves unfurl faster every day,
and the meadow, no longer green,
shimmers with colour.
Earth calls, sings,
in the last dead leaves ripped from the oaks
and in the repeated trills of the thrush.
Hands dig, lift stones, plant seeds.
Lizards watch with prehistoric eyes
my singing hands.
Dig deep enough and you reach the past.
It will be so hard to leave.