A Turning-Rhyme for the Heap

A farm-belt work-rhyme chanted while turning the compost heap — half almanac, half prayer to Old Harrow, teaching the seasons of muck and seed. Copied into the margins of a Reshi caravan ledger.

Green face up and black face under, turn the heap and don't ask wonder. What you feed him rots to gold; what you keep too long grows cold.

Frost-month: break the crust and steam him. Mud-month: sink the seed, don't dream him. Green-month: thin the row and thank him. Cut-month: leave the last, don't rank him.

He's no lord to bow the knee to — he's the dirt that says come-to. Work his ground and eat come spring. Walk away, and thistles bring.