Sunday, 3 July 2011

A Poem For July

Summer Lawn

As fresh green blades of lawn are we
Each soft slipped tip
Unseeing, spearing up and out
The drought dried ground
In hope. A hope so whole
So silent, so supremely
All encompassing.
All defining. We, the fresh green
Lawn of hope. Certain
Of our welcome, sure
Of our contribution.
Never in the darkest dream,
Waking, startled, frightened
From our slumber by
The low drone of whirring blades
Dew damp and primed
To cut us down.

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