The seed drawer
The handle of a trowel, matches that won’t strike,
soft pellet boxes nibbled by slugs, keys, a bird’s claw
And seeds that can’t grow.
The spinach with which we planted our first year:
it produced eternal crop in the cypress shade
next to the old shed fox lair.
A heritage collection given as a wedding present
small fertile packets received each month, some remain
redundant when I became pregnant.
Pulses, and nasturtiums, end of rows, beans
left unused and carefully sealed; and old envelopes
tapped from melissa, honesty by the bungalow,
big spectral plates waiting along with teasels, feverfew;
these might yet take, a selection of possibility
to be scattered in some muck, raked.
The drawer holds all its load another year
but nothing is thrown away because
it could happen; heat, water, light, the seedcase open.
Copyright © Bridget Khursheed 2017
Bridget Khursheed is a poet and geek based in the Scottish Borders.