Kristiana Reed, listen to her read it; magical
I like listening to the rain
and watching the warm street lamp glow
melt into the window frame.
Sometimes I hear footsteps too,
the distant rumble of traffic
and the echoes of birds.
I can see the chimney of my neighbour’s house
and I can see a magpie or pigeon
(they visit most frequently)
has dropped some grass seed.
Thin fingers of grass sprout
from the breast, bending
and waving in the wind.
It makes me smile
in this quietly interrupted silence;
that there is a lone patch of grass
so high in the sky.
It will never be cut or tended to,
there isn’t room for a no ball games sign;
it must only be a few inches wide.
I wonder if it will ever grow so long
it emerges from the chimney
like a green Mr Tickle
reaching for the ground.
I hope for its sake it doesn’t
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