When I am done here
Hinder not the earth’s digestion
Of me with oak, or cedar, or pine.
Let me go as I came and
Weigh me not down
With a pillar of granite
But bid me descend to the womb of the planet.
Don’t waste me
And grind me
To infertile powder,
But let young grubs sup
On my cerebral chowder.
My cheeks, two blanched apples,
For the worms should provide
If not all at least two of their five.
Let the trees slake their thirsting roots
With a cool draught of gazpacho,
Let the soil grow rich from my fat
Like gravy soaked bread.
Let the woods be ever livened
For I will be dead.
But if you can’t bear the sight
Of my pale and lifeless lips,
Wrap me up in newspaper
Like a glut of steaming chips.
Return me to the earth
Without black or ceremony,
Bid me then to grow
Into what, in turn, builds me.
Sally Roberts is in her third year of studying English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. Her favourite poets are Michael Rosen, Alfred Lord Tennyson and Edward Lear.