White flowers, the size of a freckle sun-kissing the skin, scatter like dots amongst the green carpet that lay beside the red-dirt trail. Amongst them, simplistic round-edged cream coloured flowers greet the morning sun. Tiny inverted silvery trumpets hang from slender green stems that bend under their dew covered weight. While bleached miniature megaphones, solid in their stance, appear staked upon unbending rods.
Present are various greens belonging to differing species of bladed grasses. Some tall thin and willowy, while others squat and staunch. I’ll tread upon groups of spongy tough tufts, while ‘ankle-biters’ with arrow-like seed heads attempt to embed themselves upon unsuspecting socks. Fragile feathery grasses grow in ditches showcasing petite pink flowers. Individually you can’t see them. But collectively they float like subtle pink smoke hovering over a bed of shifting green. Beyond that, the long grass, tall and proud. So tall I can’t see over their towering heads. Thickly gathered I can’t see through them as they rustle and sway, mutually together, as if bracing themselves against the world.
These are the weeds that gather on the sides of the walking trail. The unloved. The uncared for. The free ones that grow where they lay on the sides of bitumen covered roads. Where cars zoom past oblivious to delicate petals creating flowers, the softness of individually shaped leaves, the orchestration of differing greens.
Today seemed to be their morning to dance. To dance the Dance of spring time. Dance for individual colour. Dance for natural beauty. Dance for freedom. They Dance for not being seen as a weed.