Compost

There was a big pile of compost in the so called »plot« of ours. And in my country a »plot« is a kind of garden, or orchard, or whatever you make of it, a plot of land to grow things on. Old people do it most, but if the old people are your grandparents, then you do it too.
So the compost pile was big, and surrounded with a kind of wooden fence. It didn't smell bad, and cucumbers grew next to it. And on the other side there were some nasty bushes and raspberry bushes too.
But the compost itself, hey, I don't remember anything special about it! We would throw them compost on the ground, and that would make the ground nice and fertile and the cucumbers would grow nicely, or anything else that we would decide to plant on our »plot«.

I have heard it recommended that Christmas morning is a good time to turn your compost heap. Personally, I suggest taking care of turning your roast potatoes instead.

Surely, old compost is warm compost – sometimes even boiling in the middle? Our versatile worms don't seem to mind this at all – and over the years, the one or two rats and rather more urban foxes of the neighbourhood (probably in search of a centrally heated home, canny animals) have been known to burrow into compost of all ages, but especially mature.....

To me there is something particulary satisfying about tending a compost pile. That rich earthy smell, all the fascinating little organisms that live there in various symbiotic relationships... It's a perfect metaphor for the Earth and life in general.

I've always expected compost to rhyme with lost rather than post. Realising that it in some places it might not is one of the more surprising discoveries that I've found contained within compost. A crop of new potatoes and a wasps nest can be added to the list.

When the circus comes to town, I always try to get some elephant manure for my compost heap.

Man has given a false importance to death. Every man, animal, or plant that dies simply returns to nature's compost heap.