Goldfinches

In the hush of a spring‑morndey hedge
A flutter of gold lifts hue from the hedge.
With feathers bright as a dawn‑kissed rose,
The goldfinch gleams where the seedlings grow.

Its beak, a tiny golden‑clay arc,
Taps the seed on the leaf‑soft start.
“Feather‑friend,” the old rust‑brown park speaks,
In language as pure as the brook that leaks.

The bird trills a tune both sharp and sweet,
A lullaby the city‑corners meet.
Its quiet chatter, a gentle hum,
Wins favour in every siesta’s sum.

Above, it darts with quick little wings—
A fleeting flash of gold‑lit things.
And ever the grass will, in clay, remember
That goldfinch, at etch‑gull‑chance, goes on forever.