The Grasses

The grasses say, We are tired.
We are getting a little dry.
We perch here on the edge of the cliff
in the path of the salt spray,
waving our stems and fronds
like begging hands upraised.

The creek ripples in silence
ignoring their plea,
flowing on its fast way
to the mouth of the estuary.
The lowering tide exposes
stingrays buried in sand.

They flap their triangular arms
and above them the surface is cut,
outlining their diamond shapes
in a series of circles and frills,
the long tails trailing.

The flying fish jump and dive
spearing the surface each way.
The shallows are sinking lower
beginning to rest on the sand.

We have seen it all day,
say the grasses, and all
the days before. Now
we are ready for sleep.

Over the way a rock
pokes whitely out of the water,
and up on the beach a tree
among the green turns orange.
The midges begin to sting
and I move away and start walking.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

22/3/08

Linked – eight years later – to Poetry Pantry #302 at Poets United