Grass, in its gentle fall, confides,
The sprawling hills are soft in signs.
A pastel haze of life implies,
In quiet afternoons we find.

The creatures that roam through golden stalks,
Beneath the rustled vests of walks
Whispering secrets, soft, aloud,
With the silence of a nature crowd.

We tread, albeit often in haste,
And ignore the slithering vines they trace.
But in their lingering threads entwined,
There lies the care the heart can find.

• Philip Larkin