Tell me of the grass on

Your side of the fence,

That the ground is hard and stony faced

That it is withered or wild, untameable

Clumped, devoid of moss or feeling

Bracken wetted sludge and

Sumptuous richness

Perhaps you are starving too

That there is no land or hope to spare

dust swirls the seeds back out of the ground

That you and the earth are a glued vase

Infertile, unreceptive, cold cracked

I will look skywards as I listen, then

tell you of the storms

That soak skin and soil,

Of the dying stars radiance

That draw life in and out of the old ground

we go over

I will breathe, catch the unmistakeable scents

Of harvest, petrichor, betrayal

You can tell me the grass is any shade you like,

The fences you built

Will not stop the turning seasons of love