The brown of the river has turned green
So the first storms are over
And the hills and fields upstream have drained.
There’s still a frost on the ground,
And it won’t be safe to cross the old tree,
The fallen bridge the children used
To get to the gentle bank for skipping stones,
Making fairy homes, and fishing without hooks
Until the river runs clear,
Low, and having dredged up bottles and bones
And other ancient voices
For the delight of discovery next Spring.