Soil
Poetry by William Coldicott

To S.H.


Under moist earth—this climate—
we cannot dissipate
to Mycenean helmet, Gilgamesh Sumerian;
others, unlike, but on the turf, would lend
the digger his luxuries; we wired gangs
preserve the rock, up-end the tree
prescribe the fuse our dignified exchanges,
bequeath puzzles, where precedent
shaped monument, dispose
as grandiose the marvel, magnify
the pimple on a primadonna, feast
on slivers of utilitarian casket –
in this climate, where peat-bogs reek
of digging.

The soil, hands work
the soil. The page, fingers work
the page – more fragile restless
things than calloused
giants which do not feel the prick
of thorns or the cut
of paper.

Will you dig a flowerpot with your pen –
or peep out from behind the lacy
curtain with your battle-lines drawn, and holler
on your paper field instructions
to your merry men? Pathologies of ridden fields,
sworn patrimonies of wired ley-lines
span compasses of soil and street, and pulp,
for end’s sake – in ending, magnify
the same, these gangs, who risk the grave
by fusing all, who risk the page by carving
headstones for a Gilgamesh:
we can but dissipate
under moist earth—this climate—
I leave my fathers buried in their fields
I leave my mothers raking
up the dead.