Leggy

Leggy

In the quiet garden where dew still clings,
A shoot pushes up, slender and long,
Its stems a whisper of jade,
Leggy in their eager reach for sun.

Like a dancer on tiptoe, it sways,
Each internode a measured pause,
Stretching toward the amber light,
A quiet labour of green ambition.

The gardener watches, half‑amused,
Half‑concerned, lest it topple,
Yet admires the grace of its length—
A leggy promise, reaching, ever‑so‑slightly,
Towards the sky’s soft, British blue.