• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 07
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The yard is cracked open
by stray seeds, rooting
into pavements untrodden.
Bindweed furls around pallets.
Toadflax frills pink
in brickwork fissures.
Layer upon layer of city decay,
peels back communities,
revealing the edges of their stories,
as the crumbling dirt.
These stories get under
your fingernails, outline
your cuticles, as you
scrabble around in
the damp corners of rot.

Because when they are done with them,
we find them: discarded
words tipped at the park gate,
broken sentences dumped
by the canal, an entire paragraph
hung on a gatepost.
We gather them here, layer them,
cover them, turn them.
We mix them, add green and brown,
seek balance, allow warmth.
We punctuate with time.



It is done and here you are,
at the neighbourhood compost.
Take some, run it through
your clean hands. Hear the echoes
of their stories. Be nurtured
by our retelling.