Tom Dylan

Where The Wild Grass Grows

I push open the creaking wooden gate,

my black Labrador squeezing through beside me

and trotting off ahead.

We follow the well-trodden footpath

across the field.

 

On either side of the path

the wild grass grows free and unkempt

as tall as my waist,

swaying in time with the breeze

like all-night ravers with their hands in the air.

 

My boot splashes through a muddy puddle,

the dog scamps and sniffs

head buried ears-deep in the long grass,

birds sing and warble in the trees

all around me.

 

As I lose myself in this perfect pocket of countryside,

it’s almost possible to ignore and tune out

the whoosh and rush of the cars

whizzing down the dual carriageway

on the other side of the trees.