The Barbican

The sky is not quite the shade of blue a human would expect to see. The sun is just a little too orange to be Earth's sun. But most astonishing of all are the sights and smells that greet each unwary and unsuspecting visitor:

Grass. Patches of low soft turf, thick and plush under foot, dotted here and there with small wildflowers. Tall fountains of grass with heavy seed heads nodding in the breeze, wisps of potential offspring occasionally falling, twisting, drifting elsewhere. Wide-bladed, razor-edged grass rather like the yucca plants found in the American Southwest. Thick-stemmed grasses with regular segments from root to tip, and long narrow oval leaves, almost like bamboo. Grass that rustles with the passage of unseen creatures, close at hand or off in the distance.

The many species look almost familiar, almost Earthlike in their shapes and textures, but not always familiar in color. There is grass that is bright green, and yellow, and brown, but there are grasses growing in scarlet waves, undulating gently with the wind. There are grasses almost as blue as the sky overhead, or almost as orange as the sun. Grasses that begin with violet at the root and gradually shade to lavender at their tips. A riot of color and scent, and yet oddly unified, as if one is standing in a vegetative ocean.

This may be a prairie, but it is nothing like Kansas.