London Poem: Day 238

12 April

When the grass is green,
We call it sand,
Unhappy with the consistency.
There is this, and that
Curling softly so that
We become dissatisfied
Before it is ever seen,
Because that is our nature.
But, ah, nature!
That gracious creature,
What can we say to you,
When at last, we are satisfied.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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