Greenhouse by Rosie Adamson Clark

amongst open bags of compost,
heavy, earthy, aromas,
upturned  broken terracotta pots,
in dim light I huddled,
under a half empty grow bag,
last years.
I waited in near silence,
though the rustle of my shaking
body against the plastic sacks
disturbed the air,
holding my breath til my chest
could stand the pressure no more,
I exhaled, a drifting fug,
settling  quickly against
heated  cold panes of glass,
giving my hiding place away.
I was un earthed,
a pattern I created
with wet rubber boots,
muddy prints so obvious
to any eye,
led into the clear box,
constructed to nurture.
Producing juicy rich tomatoes,
laden with seeds for the next crop,
the smell,
green, dense, sultry,
filling my nostrils,
created a rumble from the pit
of my stomach,
growling beast like,
the emptiness cried out
to be filled with the
succulent sweet juices,
slices of the fruit between
Mothers pride bread,
the hiding and seeking
Was over...til the next time.