Worm farm

I think my worms are quite happy. Although, when I open the lid of the layered plastic farm, there are often a few renegades waiting as if to find that one moment of escape, right up by the opening. They think that to leave the comfort of my over fed, protected from predators, world that I have created for them, they may find more exciting food or a life in a wider and less restrictive world.

Sometimes, a rare individual, naked and pink fleshed, is prepared to wait it out on the bottom, dank and muddy level of the farm, perhaps in the hope of flowing out with the fertilizer, into a new adventure. I feel slightly angry with them as I scoop their fragile lengths into my caring hands to dump them lovingly back on top of the food mountain I have provided for them on level one. Don't they know, I have created for them the perfect garden of worm Eden?

Poor blind creatures. Probably, most of them smell me coming and hate me for my boundaries. Probably, they hold many worm conversations about how, either I don't exist since they can't see me, or how distant I must be since they have never met me personally, or how cruel I must be for creating so many walls to confine them.

If one slides out in the sludge of water that I harvest out of my farm for enriching my plants, I rescue it. That worm may resent how I will go after it to bring it back when it was so close to freedom. Maybe, one or two are grateful. Maybe as they landed on the soil, they heard a long lost hungry, escapee, deep in the dry ground, wailing that they should never have left the farm.

I try to warn them that it is the broad way that leads to destruction. There are sharp and cruel beaks that will seek them out, once they are away from their home. They will have to hunt and compete for food. Sure, at first it will seem like their options are limitless and joining their wild kind, may seem good to start with.

At the worm clubs, under the compost heap, worms compare stories. "My upbringing was restrictive and stifling". Says a former farm worm. "I have my rights to freedom." Agrees another. "Those farm worms are repressed." Says another. "We are our own gods here!" Boasts a rather elongated and slippery worm.

The days go by and I need soil from the compost. The shovel slices a few unsuspecting worms. Others are tossed as they fall with the rich soil and some land on the top of the vege' garden in full sight of a dozen birds. In my worm farm, a family gathers to enjoy some spring warmth. It is good to start a new day and realise that more scraps of delicious food have arrived. The gardener's mercies are new almost every morning. I am sure these worms who submit to my farm, are gathering to give thanks to their creator’s servant, who looks after them so well.