The Spring of Tom Thumb

Just wee Tom Thumb am I;
lost in the towering grass;
leaning upon the trunk
of every daffodil I pass.

My life span may be days;
my heart beat, a bee’s wing
but I’m honoured to gaze
upon beautiful towering things.

Small as a distant star
in the gigantic skies;
the spot upon a ladybird’s
shell for an eye,
yet I plough with my pen
upon the plane like page
hoping to be a glimmer
in this bright green age.