Breaking the Earth open with the blade of the spade, turning it over, breathing the perfume it made. That earthy peat smell, on a crisp Autumn’s morn, working with nature, harvesting plants from seeds born.
Watching the blackbirds pick freshly dug worms. While the underground world slithers and squirms with centipedes and millipedes and grubs so grotesque. There are Worlds within Worlds, all doing their best. Surviving above as below, each has a purpose and a path to follow. The world keeps on turning like the Earth on the spade, while destiny dictates whose lives end or whose are made.
Spiders webs glisten in early morning dew, a marvel of engineering you or I couldn’t do. The lesson in patience in a trap that’s been spun, I apologise for their destruction, all the webs I’ve undone. Life is always changing, evolving to grow, we think little of the chaos or…
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