Strange Stream



March’s rain and sleet have sidled
Down a dry, aimless ditch
And formed a stream.
Pollution, sand or unusual mud
Has turned the water to darkest tan,
A cousin of the pale curls on the bank
Thrown aside by the trees two seasons back.
Other leaves have drowned and lie, static,
Frosted with air bubbles and grit,
As though what was once resigned to rot
Has been halted, half-decayed.



More poems to follow later.

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