Perhaps, in spring

Perhaps, in spring

Water runs now in the dry stream
singing where was only wind-hiss
in leaves already fallen.

Its bright trickle picks its way
between tufts of gold and green,
bluesky between burnt browns
of sedge and sodden leaf litter.

From fallen leaves tarnished
gold dimming in the mud
new shoots will show

when spring breezes blow
and the long grass at fields’ edge
will bloom bright and red again.