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