The Grass Is Black at Night
John Tustin


The grass is black at night,
under a moon that masks inhibition 
 
and the grass stands straight up,
dances behind a veil;
 
quivering as a mass
like a vast organism that lies
connected at the bottom of the sea.
 
The grass is black at night
and it points its billion fingers
upward toward heaven;
 
telling the stars what they should do
and the stars can hear them
but do not listen.
 
The grass is black at night–
a carpet of shadows;
 
a deep canvas
and the sun will apply
its brush daily,
 
the cavorting green
that stood with such rigidity 
becoming slowly
a bending pale gold.