Mist

MIST

Creeping over land
Solid and yet transparent
The mist magics us.

*

----------------------------------------------------------------------

PASSING BY

I did but see them, passing by,

Almost weed-like, almost shy.

Growing in unlikely places

With their little orange faces.

Nasturtiums, they grow everywhere;

Rocky, sandy, the don't care.

Casting shadows that are small;

On pavement and on garden wall.

Gardeners search for something rare;

Gardeners tinker and compare,

Using Latin names with pride,

Hoping we'll be mystified.

A gardener hopes to find a rarity

He can nurture for posterity.

He studies every catalogue;

Even every gardening blog,

In the hope that soon he'll claim

A plant to carry-on his name.

But I dedicate this ballad

To leaves that we use in a salad,

And to little orange faces

Spied in unexpected places.

*