Wind in the grass, everything seems as it once was.

Wind in the grass, was anything ever as it once was?

Wind in the grass, or shifting light on a million blades?

Wind in the grass, waves in the water moving on, the same but never the same again.

A reflection on Midsummer's Eve 2019.

A word lived amid the towering red poppies and purple irises, in a quiet place where it was itself. 

A word was plucked and put on display in a slogan for all to see and smell.

A word was blown like a dandelion across the seas of things written and said, landing in the mud of absolutes in history and visions. 

A word became sick when it was imprisoned in virulent sentences and forced into prostitution.

A word became an empty deserted shell under the rhubarb leaves. 

Rest in peace, dear word, and return once more to the hopeful soil of letters.

Dedicated to the dignity of language, an endangered species.