Clay With potash it comes reddish, a lobster ground to dust, and the spring— before the furnace is fired up to bake, compounding, setting me in place, forcing rigor mortis— is the best time to gather rain, pray for moderate drizzle, light enough to roll mud cakes, paw-tacky, oleaginous. Sand Never underestimate breath, how open-textured soil creates myriad windows for the breeze to fall through, and I suck it up for strength, swallow each puff for stamina, to avoid the plough as it works loose the top part, leaching looming, clawing a rain tunnel for the roots. Silt Where the storm has stripped the earth for suffering, it’s been good for silt, swept, sprinkled, deposited, in stone-free subsoils, a favorite to feel my way through, silk-soothed to its yielding, a joy to sift, move to one side, dodging beetroot and birch a game to ease monotony. Loam Part silt, part sand, part clay, loam is an all-rounder, suitable for beginner diggers, an easy one to shove and chasm, although stones are imminent, so go with closed mouth, this soil a force, multifaceted, rich with geography, maps of brickwork built into its in-and-organic matter. Peat For the bold, when domestic life gets too much, upending tulips and gardenias old hat, a hack job, the fen’s sponge—fun for a minute—will try your patience, permafrost testing the skull on a scale of bulldozer to brittle, and before you know it, it’s blackwater, breath cast to memory. Chalk Clifftop soil, the kind that peaks at high altitude which, once broken at the surface, provides a sea view, a substrate layer of irony given its tendency for drought, and dangerous soil depending on the angle you approach it, flint daggers to skin you, spears to ward off prey. Limestone Despite what you’ve been told, it isn’t chalk, and although alkaline-heavy and based in marine biology, it’s made up of shells, organism skeletons, not plankton, a hotbed for fungi and lichen, deteriorating mineral, my pathways enriched with nutrients, a self-care soil. City Footfall, double decker buses, shop, shop, shop squeeze the air out, wring the earth of water, of life, worms a rare treat amongst the humus of creeping yellow, my roof once spread with butter-light, stems to cling to, now white epoxy chips, polycarbonate plastic for brilliance.
R.C. Thomas (he/him) lives in Plymouth, UK. He has four books of poetry: The Strangest Thank you (Cultured Llama, 2012), Zygote Poems (Cultured Llama, 2015), Faunistics, and Infinity Strings (with Hifsa Ashraf). His poems have been published in online and print journals internationally. He’s Plymouth Laureate of Words 2025-27.
