The Dead by Don Paterson

The Dead

Our business is with fruit and leaf and bloom;   

though they speak with more than just the season's tongue—   

the colours that they blaze from the dark loam   

all have something of the jealous tang   

   

of the dead about them. What do we know of their part   

in this, those secret brothers of the harrow,   

invigorators of the soil—oiling the dirt   

so liberally with their essence, their black marrow?   

   

But here's the question. Are the flower and fruit   

held out to us in love, or merely thrust   

up at us, their masters, like a fist?   

   

Or are they the lords, asleep amongst the roots,   

granting to us in their great largesse   

this hybrid thing—part brute force, part mute kiss?