All is well

The wayside plants talk to me
as I pass
in words of brown and green.
‘Hallo’ they say,
‘we haven’t seen you for a while,
are you OK?’
I smile and pass on
past huge, happy hazel leaves
grinning at the sun,
and wine-thorned stems of bramble resting
from all the pushing and growing and arching
with a maternal air
and nests of black drupes.
And oh the red, round earrings,
necklaces, jewelled bodices
of hawthorn which is modestly turning
to dappled yellow and brown
so as not to flaunt its pride in
such a rich harvest.
Elder leaves catch the
sun and the spiders
and the shape of the day between each leaf
as a present to please us
as we pass.
Nettles lean drunkenly
with their stiff tassels of beads,
humbly healing the land
with a shy smile.
And the grass is still singing
as it loves the sky
and reaches for embrace
before it lays itself down,
swayed by the gentlest kiss
of air. All is waiting. All is
round and green and well-fed
and happy
for the year has been won,
the roots are holding,