Chimney Grass

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

because all it will find is the hard concrete.

No soil to find a new home in

just room to wilt and be bleached

by the sun and trampled underfoot.

I imagine it will still try

like we all do, to find something new

because we’re never content

with who we are or where we are.

The only difference between us

is we’re often aiming for the sky

instead of keeping our feet on the ground.

9 thoughts on “Chimney Grass”