Grass - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The grass is a runner at the blocks, ready to race for the light as soon as the weather warms. Fresh sunlight illuminates perfect spheres of water upon its fine green wands. With the chorus of the birds above, this chill day already feels as if it has a touch of magic, as if anything may happen.
The grass grew in tussocks and flattened in waves with each gust of wind, only to spring up as fresh as a bunch of flowers right after. It was nothing like the uniform green of the meadow back home that almost looked combed. Each tuft was wild and slightly yellowing under the sun and between each there was bare soil, baked and powdery. Skipper jumped ahead, running all around, yapping, wagging his tail. Maisy let out a rare laugh, it was worth keeping him just for this. It didn't occur to her that the barking would travel so far through the low shallow valley they had found themselves in, or that it would draw The Saviours to her. Anyone that entered their territory had been brought to them by God Himself, they said, and they were The Gift. Before she had traversed even halfway through the bushy grass she noticed figures clad in orange robes arranged in a circle at the edges. She called to Skipper and held his collar tight, then with her free hand she reached for her sig sauer pistol.
Rough and shaggy like uncombed hair, coarse, blue-green grass, long and unkempt, meadow grass waving and rustling in the breeze, pale and stiff with frost, damp and springy, almost black in the twilight, short like a bowling green, interspersed with weeds and meadow flowers, an expanse of uniform green, brown patches from the intense summer sun and lack of rain, manicured lawn with neat crisp edges, the raggedy grass lay under the brittle leaves in it's shaggy autumnal decrepitude, soft sun-warmed grass of early summer, lush and thick grass of the river bank.
...and the fields would be deep in that rank, hairy or slick, juicy, sticky grass which the cattle gorge on and never gets flesh over their ribs for that grass is in that black soil and no matter how far the roots could ever go, if the roots were God knows how deep, there would never be anything but that black, grease-clotted soil, and no stone down there to put calcium into that grass...
The grass has that bluish tinge I associate with the seaside, it's coarse and tough, but I love it more than the tame grass of the suburban yards. I prefer the wild look, it's free, untamed. If I were a painter I'd sit with an easel and attempt to do it justice. But instead I just let it make an impression on my memory, I want to recall everything from the soft hue to the way the stalks are made stronger with their intertwined fibres.
The grass has been mown so short the ground shows through. The moss is scuffed, rolling away from the soil like a carpet, its once strong greens yellowing in the heat. Larry stands back, satisfied with his work. Grass cut like that takes a far longer time to grow back, the shorter the better. Then he had more time to work on his other projects; there was always so much to do.
The grass is taller than I've ever seen it; meadow-like but still green. All that's missing is the weeds that were so beautiful in the somerset fields. I want the blue cornflowers, scarlet poppies, white asters and even the thistles. Next spring I'm going to scatter seeds in the newly softened soil. This time next year the grass will be just as high, but a riot of colour in place of the uniform green – something to warm my soul as well as please the eye.
The grass waves like people in a stadium, catching the light in a way that shows it isn't one green but many. The blades can be skinny or broad, but in this field they are packed so tightly I can't see the earth beneath. In this spring that is so rich in rain, and on the good black soil of the district, each one has grown so tall I have to walk as if I'm on the moon. The recent rain lies in beads that transfer to my boots and soak into the socks I have pulled up high over my pants. It's a long walk over to the other side, but so pleasant in the early morning. The birds sing like they've never seen a dawn so fresh and I have to agree. I could see this a hundred times over and never tire of it. These fields are the fields of home. Perhaps I had to go far away to appreciate it, but never again. I see its everyday beauty for the wonder it is and know this is where am most at peace.
The grass had grown so out of hand in front of number twenty-three that it had begun to set seed. It could have been cut, dried in the July sun and fed to horses.
Eli would describe the grass as his personal crusade to impose order on his scrubby patch of land. He pulled weeds, he hoed and he set new seed. He watched out of his window in a paranoid trance at 3pm for school children blowing dandelion clocks on their way home.
The lawn looked out of place in the neat suburbia. The knee-deep grass was as rich with flowers as any meadow, Ricca realized that they must have been sown there deliberately. A little patch of the countryside right here in Dinton.
The grass was as neat as astro-turf with corners more square than a book.
The grass was sparse between the clumps of moss in the dishevelled lawn.
Not more than a thousand feet beneath him he saw patches of snow, and patches of--green grass, the brightest and most verdant green that he had ever seen in his life.
The grass flattened under the wind in beautiful shimmering waves, each blade turned momentarily to reflect brilliant sunlight. Each one was no more than a slim wand of green, yet together they danced in way that bought out my pain and let a little goodness in.