The day is greyed to dingy almost dark,
the leaves have left the trees alone and stark,
but on the ground there are still occasional sparks
My addict eyes have searched all around
for any remaining traces to be found
and here, elevated to stardom on the ground,
is moor grass.
Tussocks of green with long sandy tips
pepper my path with urgent little hits
of mist-beating, murk-defeating tiny tints
And today, in the drear, it is enough
to discover even humble, forgotten tufts
can shine sheer beauty in a world that can be tough
on moor grass.