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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.
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