This piece came from a prompt at Penrith Writers’ Group as part of Great Big Green Week: Together For Good.
It made me reflect on the community in my garden.
Compost Companions
© Veronika Sophia Robinson
Deep in the dark,
the compost heap rumbles with busyness.
The surrounding air
rich with the scent
of sweet earth, fermenting fruit
and promises.
Listen closely, now,
as the silence breaks:
the rhythmic sigh of decay
breathing new life.
Frogs, toads and hedgehogs
find sanctuary.
Insects hover over the compost,
woodlice lie in wait,
the curled-up millipede naps,
beetles scuttle back and forth.
Can you hear
the scratch of tiny claws?
Or the slow slide of slugs?
There’s a furious feast below
where hundreds of muscular worms
churn scraps into black loam,
soon to be soft as silk.
I plunge my hand
into the warm yielding soil
as it crumbles through my fingers.
Fashioned from rough splintered pallets
and an old stone wall,
and tucked beneath
the hazel and cypress trees,
this three-sided compost heap
now surrounded by
a lilac picket fence,
breathes in and out.
From first light of day to last,
this cycle of death,
birth and renewal pulsates.
I’m only one of many regular visitors,
appearing at different times of day.
The damp, dew-kissed grass
kisses my bare feet,
in the soft light of morning,
while the world is asleep;
and later, the warmth
of the midday Sun
settles on my shoulders.
I tiptoe here
beneath the twinkling
promises of twilight.
No matter the hour of the day,
I am welcome.
My garden,
a shrine to Mother Nature,
the compost, an altar:
a place of ritual and reverence.
Like a bride carrying
her bouquet towards the threshold,
I bring my devotional offerings:
sharp tang of orange rind
cut in one elegant spiral,
pitted-out potato eyes,
the bitter perfume
of wet coffee grounds,
dry crunch of shattered eggshells,
slick-skinned avocado stones,
zesty lemon slices left over
from my hot morning cuppa,
abandoned courgette ends,
unbleached Rooibos teabags,
cradled pumpkin skin,
pointy pineapple crowns,
aubergine collars so regal,
well-nibbled apple cores,
the heavy sweet scent of brown-spotted banana peels,
a soft rustle of paper-thin,
pinstripe onion skins,
tough cauliflower leaves,
discarded green bean tops,
wiry white roots from spring onions,
corn cobs with pocked sockets,
stumpy celery stub,
tangled tomato vines,
woody asparagus ends,
seeds from peppers,
fresh-shorn grass clippings,
sweet wood chippings.
Potatoes grow here with gay abandon,
like naughty school children
tussling upward, whispering,
“Look mum, no hands!”
A random chamomile
digs in her roots.
A wild rose clambers
along the stone wall
calling “What about me?”
Nearby, the blueberry bushes
stretch their roots below.
Blossoms beckon berries into being.
Dew settles on the fennel fronds.
Our black cats sunbathe on top
snoozing in the midday Sun
enjoying the compost’s ambient warmth
an eye half open for unsuspecting mice.
This garden, with her mature trees,
is a hotel for birds.
The compost heap is their Heathrow:
a landing strip between the trees,
the bird-feeding station and bird baths.
An unseen magnet gathers
a choir
of curious compost companions.
From the corner of my eye
I catch the flash
of the red-breasted robin,
hear the percussive rhythm
of the great spotted woodpecker,
a starling, the chatterbox of the compost,
rich fluting melody of the blackbird,
and the sharp chirruping song thrush.
The colour purple writes a motif amidst the rooted blossoms:
lilac, lavender, lupins, lobelia,
clematis petals brushing
against my skin,
chive blossoms,
aquilegia swaying in the breeze.
The old holly tree,
matriarch of the garden,
offers her white confetti blossoms to the Earth.
Bumble bees sip from water stations,
butterflies dance
from bloom to bloom.
Harmony and happiness live here
in this community setting.
The compost heap is full now.
“It’s time to let this one rest,”
I say to my husband.
“We’ll build a new compost.”
Without saying as much,
he knows it’s a Royal ‘We’.
But before long
he’s roped in
to carting pallets,
assembling and nailing corners.
A new green frame rises
against the beech hedge,
and meets the thick fragrance of lilac.
The air turns sweet, heavy, and alive.
A fresh pulse of heat.
The promise of renewal.
A new heartbeat in the garden.
Another chance to show this
Earth that I care.
The old altar falls quiet,
or so it seems.
My work there is done.
For now.
