Swishing of the Oat Seed
On the bleak street
not a blade of grass,
only dust
from the lorries,
the cement mixers.
A year later
I see a bud appearing,
by Autumn
this one golden blade
has grown tall.
The sound of a swishing oat seed
cheers me up
in grubby flatland.
Copyright © Mary Guckian | Year Posted 2015
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