It’s waist high in the back garden
Full of pink bell like flowers
And the bees can’t keep away
Beautiful greens with huge leaves
It’s almost ready for the chop
But the bees are so drawn
In this hot sun
I’m leaving it alone
For a while.
Once cut it will hang for a day
Then soak in a big old bucket of water.
It froths and stinks to high heaven
And turns to black gold.
Watered down around twenty to one
It goes to feed the plants and microbes
It grew up with
The other plants thrive on it
Like us poets on poem hunter,
Feeding our roots from around the world
On the good will of poets
We love and admire.
Surprising what you can find to say,
About a little ‘ole comfrey plant.