Earth to earth
Pasture, 1958
Stumbling over ancient rigs and furrows,
spade dragging
knees raw with cold…
My arms feel its weight now,
and bear the broken shaft.
Mud clutches at boots as
silvered tussocks give way to rime-hard clods
which sink under each step.
The cattle are already at the trough.
Rough muzzles snuffle the frozen surface.
At our approach, heads are raised,
belching hot clouds of slaver and chaff.
She pushes our way through.
Untroubled tails flick
dung-encrusted tassels
past the solid warmth of winter hair.
She lifts her arms. The watchers back away.
The spade falls
with a splintering crack.
Potato field, 1966
Hands clasp aching backs
as the last basket is tipped.
Casual women curse their labour,
filling the lull with idle prattle.
Some wonder at the endless stretch of earth.
Not a chip shop in sight.
Bridled by belonging,
I keep my breath for the picking.
The scuffler throbs ever closer,
spinning flayed tops and tubers
in its wake.
Uprooted stalks snarl at weary legs
that blunder
from the pelt of clods and stones.
Another row laid bare.
We hesitate in hope
of blue-rimmed cans of sugared tea
and thick-buttered scones.
But it is not yet time.
We bend once more.
Skep follows skep.
Large, small, flawed, smooth,
unblemished, misshapen,
we make no distinction.
My fingers sink into a set,
releasing its stench of decay.
Suburban kitchen, 1985
Their heads are close,
downy curls brushing thin grey strands.
Knowing palms cradle tiny fingers
as each bulb is carried to the bowl.
Granny shows the right way
to prop them in their bed of peat.
Together they sprinkle on more soil,
press it firmly till the surface is flat.
The bulbs are hidden. Granny says
they’ll come to life again.
The child tries to grasp
fallen flakes of hyacinth skin.
Elfin breath wafts them over the table’s edge.
I lift her to the sink.
She stretches hands towards
the trickling water, fascinated by
dark sickles under the nails.
Country churchyard, 2002
Black shod, we pick our way between the stones.
The stripped pine is lowered.
Coarse straps scrape against joints
as they’re pulled free.
The bearers step back.
It’s hard to believe where she is.
I am offered soil.
The thud is absorbed without echo.
I can see nothing.
Draw a hand across my face,
leaving a dark stain on the leather.
The other arm hangs limp.
Determined fingers seek out mine.
Warmth penetrates skin.
No need to look.