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Evening threatens and the grass is silent
the wind has abdicated to birdsong's
rising panic before the pitch of night

A shoe's idiot gape
tells no one the story of its footless
uncoupling in these tussocks of silence

And a beetle climbs a single spine of grass
towards delirious skies that shovel him back
to earth under his black weight

Tomorrow's grass will be yellow and voiceless
apart from the small green spear in its heart
shouting tomorrow and tomorrow

      — Alison Croggon