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, 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