Clump

Clump

In the meadow’s hush a quiet clump lies low,
A mound of emerald blades that cling together,
Each stalk a whispered secret, soft and slow,
Binding the earth in humble, verdant tether.

Not lofty like the solitary oak,
Nor scattered like the wind‑blown daisy’s seed,
Yet strength is found in this modest yoke,
Where fellowship gives roots the chance to feed.

A clump of friends, a huddle ’neath the rain,
Sharing a laugh, a cup of tea, a sigh—
Their bonds, like grass, sustain through joy and pain,
A simple truth: together we comply.

So let us cherish the modest, tight‑knit group,
For in the clump we find our quiet troop.