Mulch

I know a beer will set me free of lethargy,
I keenly want to write about the heady
smell surrounding me – a richly redolent
composted scent. It feeds my nostrils in
an ecstasy so recent in respect; a malty
tang, of sugar cane? declares molasses
bound with other scents in humus dark
and damp. The garden sings – it cannot
thank its host expressively although its
sighs are winning tears in brimming eyes.

I fear I’ll miss the eloquence; I hear the
muted messages – ‘more here, more here’,
I see the mulch and fork and barrow ply
the beds to cheerful blandishment. I
sense the cries of joy – it is a rare and
happy harmony of sound and scent. My
god, I think, I’ll never find the words to
do them justice here, I’ll have to leave
before the things I want to say all fade
away; I know the answer’s beer...
© 12 March 2008, I. D. Carswell