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.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019