Grass

 

The grass grows, too slowly;

The world revolves and bakes.

A river bed cries out

For all that might have been.

A painted flower wilts

To some second childhood;

Youth secretly envies

Its fading contentment.

The old, as usual, waste

Into next to nothing.

◄ Messiah

Middle Class ►

Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Mon 25th Oct 2021 21:12

Thanks to Stephen A for the like.

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Stephen Gospage

Sun 24th Oct 2021 18:39

Thank you, John. Yes, it hits a sombre note. And thanks to Nigel and Holden for the likes.

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John Coopey

Sun 24th Oct 2021 08:41

Time is running out, Stephen. It is of little consolation that our generation shall not see the worst of it.

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