Foot in the door

A mushroom cloud of fungal filaments infests my compost heap. Like a spin-drift of clammy candy floss it defies definition as solid, fluid or aerial.

The mould has colonised a lump of fruity material left over from one of my jelly-making sessions. This offers a perfect matrix for the fungus to exploit, providing both moisture and nutrient in an enclosed space. I'm reminded once again how expedient are these tiny organisms in breaking down organic matter. Quite possibly they are the life form that  will one day inherit the earth.

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.


Mushrooms by Sylvia Plath