ADAMS ALE:

-Legacy of a dying man A Collection of Poems By Adam Durnian

Cut Grass: green, yellow, dirt.

The sun stands still, only edging its way discretely. The first day of spring, Sat beneath a tree on the common. Nothing but cut grass, even where last time there was dirt. Shavings of green, of life cut down and scattered. Each strand tells a different story, of a different heritage, Of unwanted death. Left behind is the mother grass, weeping dew this mourning For a murdered son. Perched on the Oak root, the razor wake of a once so green grass Cries tears on each foot, cleansing toes, healing drought from root to core. But the grass will grow back with the comfort of neighbours, Replaced by a new green, from natural soil, watered and fed. The stunted mother wont mourn for long, And the sharpness of its loss, time will blunt.

Behind the hill is the field of wonder.

No friends, no strangers. Slowly I cross through a meter wide clearing, Edging towards soft hedges that beckon. Tiniest specks of dirt feel fresh underfoot, And merge with my feet. Larger stones and clumps of dirt Feel new and exciting. The feel of the crunch sends shivers And refreshment from a choking heat. Is this pain a friend now? Or The final penance? Take me as me.

Sat on a beach with nothing eaten. Rhythms of waves echo an uninterrupted past, Struggling to touch dying sand.

The air flies free, But rooted to the arid grains, feet cant muster a breath. Still, theres a euphoric relief in this starved sensation. A million grains lay flat and absorb a crying sweat that escapes me. Piece by piece I am shedding this skin on a page of confession, To be treasured on the furthest shelf. It is not up to us to choose how many words live on a page, Nor how many leaves grow from the book. A song is still a song even without A final verse.