Dirt

Dirt came our way via a poet
Who drank tea with stranger.

On a road we fill our pockets
With its dirt for its blossoms.

We pick in dirt fallen flowers
For gods to smell a darkness.

Dirt is fresh dust in our dawn,
Walking dirt from dog’s bark.

We pick our dirt on our faces
From children in their tatters.

They smile through their dirt
And pluck flowers from nails.

Their nails have dirt in them
And they smile in their nails.

We have sipped a masala tea
With the stranger poet of dirt.

(on reading a review of a poetry collection entitled Dirt by William Letford in the Guardian)

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