This is trochaic apart from line 8. It seems often the case that a strand of thought in trochaics ends up naturally in an iambic line.
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Emerald-yellow, dewdrop bright,
Glow like gauze which the spiders spun,
Flashed by the sun’s cold morning light.
Orange-startling like a bloodshot eye,
Flinging shadow from its horizon’s poise,
Warmth exuding in the icy sky,
The sun’s silence is a sort of noise.
Finger-shadows stroke the ground,
Green-gleam lichen swells and spreads;
Kneeling, I studied each rift and mound,
Worlds in tiny on kerbs and treads:
Grass-stained sawdust with stems and fronds,
3-D bulk with mites a’run,
Forest-dense – all boughs and wands,
Flecked with grey, flame-red and dun.
Living, thickening, by years undaunt,
Sponge-piling pavements each season passed,
Glint with frost-melt, this lichen will flaunt,
Thriving still when my grave is grassed.
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© March 2016
