The Alchemist Poem by Sheena Blackhall

I write of the squelch and mulch of the compost vat
How it gobbles and guzzles the clot and scum of leavings
Beneath its lid a fizz of pulsing flies
A fecund phalanx of wing beats smoulderings hissings

Lid lifted, they upsurge quick as a blizzard of black
Massing and milling like Satan's acolytes
The slop that is their horrid glory-hole's
A riot of rot, a seethe of suckings and bites

Leaves turned ginger and cinnamon, saffron too
Caged in a glut of slime and scattershot
Of rat-droppings, eye watering sludge
Is meat and drink for this Dante's insect zoo

Dropped in the cauldron's cauldron a robin perches
Down from the sunlight netted in deep tree mesh.
Up the chiaroscuro of bark, a squirrel
Jinks through a jungle of branches, coffin and crèche

Alert for the mouthings and mutterings of hidden creatures
Trees move at anchor like ancient toll gates creaking
The footfalls of a fox pad into silence
Into the wood like heart's ease after weeping

The vat continues its alchemy its magic
Fermenting rot to vintage fertile soil
A dragonfly hangs over the heady steepings
Rising up like a lotus over a pool