Leach

The Quiet Leach

In the hum of a Yorkshire spring‑cockle,
Black loam gleams beneath a speckled heap,
A thin‑rim glass of rain is set to creep,
And will its silvery tongue through earth aspire.

The leach, a subtle spectre in the ground,
Sends with each drop—rich humours loose and slow,
The salt and mineral, the tired grain‑flow,
The hidden run‑off that keeps knowledge round.

Yet every loss is a gain unseen,
The pond’s moisture travels onward, may bloom,
The patch of meadow will in turn resume
A pulse that kisses the buds of old green.

So let the quiet leach do its ancient art,
A slow‑cursing circulation of nature’s heart.