Ting

I can still hear that sound,

the ting of the tines of her fork

as it hit small stones as she worked the dark earth.

Those days when she went deep,

lost in digging the earth

and the world opened like a flower.

We lay on the earth

touched it and befriended

apple tree and bird.

Our blood mother, worked the soil

as we learnt earth lessons

in the school of garden.

We went beyond looking

and even hearing earth truth

as it seeped into our bones.

For him it was medicine

and he would eat small

handfuls of dark earth.

We’ve become so afraid -

how many of us know

what the earth tastes like?