Green blades of fresh grass, always growing and striving to touch the sun. Cut down weekly every summer, but always positively looking upward at the shining golden ball of Life. The taste of grass is unremarkable. Earthy. But I guess it’s what cows, goats, and sheep crave. Dogs sometimes eat grass when they have an upset tummy. I think I read somewhere that it helps them throw up.
I remember as a child, sitting or laying or playing on grass, back when I was unconcerned about dirt or bugs. To feel the sensation of those blades of grass painting each point of your skin. The way it felt to gently glide your hands and arms across it, like a big brush. How it would easily give under your weight. The wonderful neatness of a well-manicured lawn on a nice property. Like regal, royalty. The smell of it. Again, earthy, mixing with the dirt and the scent of flowers. Listen close and you can hear those blades bend in the breeze. Their heads gently lifting and looking around.
Green grass blowing around a shipyard. Mulch bags released on the loose. Compost armageddon. The Angel of Death sits on the bow with his scythe. November rain drizzle, freezing cold painting exposed skin in a sheen of ice. It will the last clothes you’ll wear. Cobblestone streets again. And gas lamps. The tinkle of a bell as the pub door is open and closes. The rising din of voices crescendoing, then muted, muffled. Tell three secrets on the lips of my mother’s grave. Waking harmony intensifies come Sunday. Marshmallow noises mosh and squish floating inner tubes like sweet gumdrop, candy daydreams. Noticing nothing sticks. Marketing Wednesday’s albatross. Fading din of distant accident. Grass on the line, painted white for a football match. Smell the air of the fading sunset, sky burnt orange and up in smoke.