I met a migrant from a distant land
who sang: in a garden beyond lies the wreck
of a birdbath, pieces strewn across the sand,
its slimed bowl cracked, of water not a speck.
Split by blades of green, the bits of its stand
expose raw concrete to an outdoor deck
where the many guests gather, drinks in hand
to view the garden below so well in check.
And the grass whispers to those who will hear
‘I live long and low, grow by day and night,
my ways are legion, my runners out of sight;
I seem your friend, the green carpet I wear,
but under the soil in the warm and dark
I grow the routes to topple your pretty park.’
(Written after Ozymandias – Percy Bysshe Shelley)
I like this, Roger. Given enough time, the Kikuyu grass we favour in South Africa could bring down empires. You capture the nature of this hardy breed in this poem.