Grass Verge Lessons

Grass Verge Lessons

Grass Verge Lessons 512 512 Alison Jones

The city council chooses May as no-mow month,
so wild creeps back into edge lands of estates,
stories erupt, from keeping clay, in devious stems.

Bound before, as grass. Now the spell is broken.
What a gift it is to meet the sky in one’s true form.
Some days I am everything to everyone, always running,

reaching out, trying to keep ahead of it all, like mother Mugwort,
clandestine then glorious, or else cleavers, hanging by tentative
hooks to anyone who is still for long enough. Mostly I am creeping,

onwards, belly to the earth, bearing light’s endeavours,
By midsummer, I know I am cinquefoil and black medic,
blooming through the cracks, not challenging mallow’s fine show,

because summer has taught me that growth is all about questions,
of what happens if heavens fade, because nobody has noticed,
and hewn leaves or blooms into ink tongued names; all is grass again.

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