Moss by the pond
green
before all else
browns of winter
and heavy leaf drapery
not for you
slow growing and humble
no flowers
no pinnacles of grandeur
branches to the skies
not you
hugging the ground
the damp
satisfied with whatever light
finds its way
down
intricate in details
rarely seen
those who stoop
to look at you
few
not picky
like some
no garden centre label for you
water light
ground
you’re away
wey-hey
I like you moss
you turn hard ground
into soft
would that I
could do the same
Zubdig 