Forest Grass

by Jean Jones

jeantatton@googlemail.com

 

I live in a woven world

Where life is threaded through

And death is the new designer.

I thrive where the black earth weaves

My ragged roots

With lifeless leaves

Discarded,

From wind torn trees.

 

Relish the wiles of the weaver

As young oaks thrust

Between my threads of tangled green.

Watch the buds unravel - vie with

Rye and fescue,

Flinch in a foreign shade

And then lie down to die.

 

I tremble with the fox,

Poor fox, lured by chance,

To the lethal loom.

Blood from your severed limb

Blends with sweet berries, leaching

Crimson, deep in the soil,

For a new design in the spring. 

 ©2008 Jean Jones

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