Grass

In the quiet hours when the world is still,
A blade of green unfurls with quiet thrill.
Soft as a whisper, light as silver dew,
It remembers every breath the cool air blew.

Beneath the maples’ shade it watches, patient, slow,
A living carpet where the rabbit’s paws do go.
Its edges worn by footsteps, by hedgehog’s tread,
Yet rises daily, reborn from night’s own thread.

The clover, daisy, and the humble rye,
All mingle on the lawn ‘til summer’s sigh.
They join in rhythm, in a muffled song,
A hymn of colour that heals the soul along.

From statutory allotment to the Queen’s own stones,
The grass holds memories, the day your family’s grown.
It hums beneath the football, the heartbeats of the field,
Uniting laughter with the rustling wind that wields.

In spray and sunshine, in rain’s fine curtain,
The green that holds us all, the earth’s own conduit.
So pause for a moment, let your thoughts unfurl,
And breathe in the simple beauty of a patch of grass.