Leah Hickey

There is dirt here;

bones buried beneath sediment.

Train chugging, crushing

graves, gemstones and unknowns.

There is dirt here.

High rise flats wish to sit at the brink,

pubs come to wrack, ruin, and rubble.

There is dirt here, from which flowers will grow.

Speckled red poppies,

fruitful, fragrant hydrangeas.

There is dirt here, in the hands of the workers;

sand and Earth in fine leathered lines.

There is dirt on my shoes,

paint, rainwater.

There is a day when the dirt will slink through my fingers.

Washed away by fine coffee,

on screen, a sheen with a flat cap.

There is dirt here.

I wish to console it, pour it into my pocket and run.