The grass over there is greener isn’t it?
You eye up the fat blades, doused in dew, and oh how they tantalise your dreams!
You dream of plucking them to make silly music between your thumbs, of walking bare foot and rolling down hills, and of aroused daisies poking through the lush, freshly cut carpet.
It is greener isn’t it? You’re almost certain as you glance back at your thin, reedy old patch to compare, but you don’t glance for long because this new patch…oh the fragrances!
The green so bright your eyes hurt, the lady bird landing perfectly…you can’t tear your eyes away.
Wouldn’t a swing chair go perfectly over there so you could sit, and swing, and stare out while the breeze blows secret, sweet nothing whispers through the blades; like caressing fingers through hair.
Your neighbours’ voice behind you comments on your patch. Something about how quaint it is, overgrown and discoloured, windswept and wild.
You grunt and grumble, ‘ah it’s not all that’.
It’s embarrassing, or perhaps boring, or so much trouble. It’s just withering, and difficult to appreciate or use; maybe it’s all of those together.
Your neighbour seems transfixed, the crazy guy. You know better, and you turn away to feast your eyes upon the glorious emerald field that you wish was yours.
You don’t know how much time has passed but when you look at your patch again, there sits your neighbour. He’s made himself quite at home. He moves a brush delicately across a canvas, observing your patch with eyes of worship and adoration while creating its likeness in oil. It is quite a beautiful painting isn’t it? What a talented man he is.
‘How pretty those purple wild flowers are’ he cooes, “they lend such a sultry elegance to the scene”
“Oh you mean those weeds?” You reply.
As you head back to drink in the greener grass like a pitcher of iced lemonade on a scorching day, you feel a little unsettled.
Time passes, and more time and then more time.
You could swear this green grass was much greener before. Why won’t these damn ladybirds settle down? This bloody morning dew leaves wet drops on your clothes and you haven’t smelled cut grass in so long.
Ambling back to your patch in dissatisfaction, a confusion settles in; you could have sworn your patch was right here. There’s your neighbour, but…where’s your patch?
‘Welcome!’ He exclaims, ‘I didn’t think you wanted this patch anymore so I’ve taken over…like what I’ve done with it?’
Cut, fed and watered; why it’s that freshly cut grass smell you so love. Your old patch is greener than you’ve ever seen it! There’s a gazebo, an ornamental waterfall, swing seats, a hammock, table and chairs, pretty flowers, and butterflies; your senses are assaulted with aliveness.
Your neighbour kneels to water a flower and stroke a petal, a tender smile upon his lips. His eyes survey his work as though he were gazing upon the naked body of a lover.
‘Did you ever water your grass my friend?’ He asks.
Suddenly, you understand.