Loamy

Loamy Earth

In the hush of dawn, the fields exhale,
a loamy breath, dark and warm,
each clod a soft, crumbly sigh,
rich with the decay of autumn leaves.

The farmer’s hand, hardened and sure,
presses into the yielding ground,
feeling the humus give way,
like chocolate cake beneath a thumb.

It holds the water, holds the seed,
a patient mother to the sprouting green,
its colour deep as brewed tea,
its scent a quiet promise of growth.

Here, beneath the loamy veil,
roots wander in silent conversation,
drawing strength from the dark,
while worms labour in their tidy tunnels.

So we thank the loam, that humble store,
where life begins again each spring,
in Britain’s gentle, patient earth.