The Maiden Grass

It is a sharp, silver day -
Made by a wind
Grieving. 
Trees and reeds sway to bend,
Sway to bend
But the goldfinch rubs
His little head
On the spray
Delicate and red
With an unmoveable agenda,
And the maiden grass
Stands back up, her
Feather tips falling
Into the sun's 
Closing prayer.
Even as the cold air stings,
I see softness  
And the pencil grey clouds allow a
Moment for the plumes of straw
To be spun into gold,
Spun into gold. 

LJ Ireton 2024