In Praise of Dirt
Childhood had its hands deep
in dirt, fingers sunk into the soft loam
of a vegetable patch rooting out
radishes and carrots - or
terra forming a backyard into
mountains and rivers fed by water
from a garden tap.
Play was bare knees
kneeling in sandy soil
with a crazed cats eye marble
cocked on a thumb doing battle
in the colosseum of a circle.
The earth beneath almond trees
was the cool, shady refuge
from summer heat, a place
to sit propped against a trunk
and feast on the season's crop.
Skin didn't feel right
unless coated in a layer of dirt
or a pair of jeans respectable
until wearing the imprimatur
of sacred soil embossed on the bum.
Come late afternoon or evening,
a hot bath would seem a waste
if it didn't carry a slurry
of backyard dirt or leave the tidal
marks from a day's play
strung out around its white
porcelain rim. It was the daily
ritual of shedding yet another
layer of childhood skin.
Too soon the tyranny of soap
spread to the spirit in a cleansing
age. Earth then harbored
only myth and microbes,
carried the risk of infection.
It is the way of things, sanitising
the sacred from our beginnings,
scrubbing the stains left
by the bleed of severed roots.
We lift our hands in prayer
amidst bouquets of artificial
flowers and the artifice
of temples dedicated
to a pantheon of sterilised gods.
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