The grass is growing. My grass.
My green grass is growing and
my feet shall not feel it when it is
dew-cold to be felt on the soles
of my feet with the sun, as only
early morning birdsong sung
can be felt with the soul, smelled
with the soil and the dew on the grass,
on my grass where my feet shall not
press their soles in belonging to the
ground, to my ground. Growing
in another spring under a sun
that still warms, where birds sing,
and where I am now forbidden, with
memories of grass, of dew, and that
sense of being as the grass, as the
ground with its cool earthy heart,
as the birds, of belonging to sky.
I had a garden, and the grass I mowed,
weeded, nurtured, sprawled upon,
no longer knows my morning feet
or how I needed it for more than
the tickle between my toes or the
sense of nature for an urban child.
The grass is growing now. I do not lie
to gaze at birds against the sun and
feel both free and grounded, or rise
because in fact it is hard and bumpy and
as uncomfortable as it is real. Instead
my wide window gathers sun, far above
a small lake, with fish, with trees and
with grass that I and a hundred dwellers
should not walk on, or feel the dew.
Gulls circle, willows weave the wind,
the water stirs with fins and a postman
draws the path. The unfelt grass is growing.
2013 © Andie Davidson
Last night was wonderful hassle. Leaving work early to get home so I could get something to eat before going out to Brighton. I wasn’t feeling too well, rather wobbly in fact, but determined, and couldn’t decide if soup would keep me going or the final spag bol decision would finish me off. Then parking near enough to walk to the Red Roaster without getting frozen on the way back. Gawping at what I had forgotten about Brighton parking: you need 6 pound coins if you want to stay even slightly over one hour, and it was 6:50pm until free parking at 8. I risked it, hoping some jobsworth wasn’t taking delight in a last patrol at 7:55. I’m sure I wasn’t looking my best either.