Across the Road

Across the road the wooden sheds have dried
and lost the stains of winter - tumbledown,
they yet seem strong and hale. The fields outgrew

their sickly yellow; on the poplar trees
there is a hint of green. The old dry grass
gets interspersed with life in bright, white stars

and spots of red and gold; the meadow's edge
where no one ever mows is best. The sounds
are changing, too, and though the soil's still cold

it's good to be outside, enjoy the light,
the quiet brightness on the drowsy fields
and all the promise of another year

to blossom out before our very eyes –
to thrill us on our rambles at long last
and still our longing with its perfect skies.