Tiny fingers of breeze slip through the grass
And over the field.
Reaching between the blades, gentle
Caress across the Weald.
They grip on sometimes, cool fingers
That would stay if they could
But move on to the hills
And travel through the wood
and beyond the seas to other shores,
to the grass in the sand.
And finds the salty stalks, brittle,
Browned in the land.
Flattened under ice, frozen,
And where the wind blows …
It often strikes me, when I look at grass,
Grass always grows.
Click here for flowers of Belize (sketches)