Old meat attracts rats. It should be destroyed.
The rest’s good for mulch. Here’s your smile,
its sunburst the day we planted the beans.
Remember the runners, the way they tendrilled
the poles, how they waved at us? Last week
I cut them, scissored their stems
into wiry handfuls, the right size for rotting.
There’s more. Onion skins, courgette stems,
chilli seeds: meals we shared, plum stones
discarded by friends, the aroma of citrus,
a lingering of coffee grounds. Endless teabags,
the finings of silent, companionable breakfasts;
the peel of our Christmas satsumas.
And under the lid, look – celebrations of worms.
• This poem first appeared in The Linnet’s Wings.