Parch

Parched earth sighs beneath a blaze of gold,
Cracks like old parchment spread across the field,
Where once the wheat would whisper, bold and bright,
Now lies a hush of dust, a thirst unhealed.

The sun, a relentless overseer,
Draws moisture from each stubborn blade of grass,
Leaving only the memory of rain,
A phantom flavour on the tongue, alas.

Yet in the silence of the thirsty plain,
A stubborn hope takes root beneath the crust—
A single green shoot dares to push aside
The barren grip, and dreams of rivers’ trust.

So let the land be parched, let skies grow wan,
For even in the driest, cracked embrace,
Life finds a way to whisper, “I remain,”
And waits for clouds to kiss its weary face.