The Sedge

A sedge is hard to spot.

As likely as not,

You’ll think its grass.

Many simply pass

Them by unseen

Because they’re green.

 

Small fountains of leaves

Like little sheaves,

Each pendant ear

Can hardly clear

The sward – concealed

In an open field.

 

Some take it for a reed

Where, willow-treed,

A forest pool,

Covert and cool,

Entices sedges

To its edges.

 

Not quite like a rush

(Not so much bush

As porcupine)

But more refined,

Less of a spike –

More lady-like.

 

On undulating dunes

Their curving runes

Wind Indian-file

On hostile soil.

Each roped to each

Abseils the beach.

 

From where the spring tides surge

To roadside verge;

Bogs and boulders

To hard shoulders;

Wherever veg. is –

You’ll find sedges!

 

Flea-flowered Bohemian

Star Carnation

Hairy Fingered Dwarf.

You’ve got to laugh –

Such names! They say,

“Don’t call us ‘hay’!”

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