NaPM April 03 2016

[Todd]

Field mice in my pocket

Mother was too pale to cough black,
Father became the house,
a face of weathered granite
melded with the stones,
kept crooked with a constant wind
raging off the moors.

When I look to the fields
the scarecrow sees me,
he's been whispering.
When the weathervane turns
his snakes hiss across the crops,
I don’t want to listen anymore
but the ground connects us.

I watch the walls at night,
my back to the flames.
Creatures come to dance behind me,
he told me not to turn
so I watch a life of shadows
flying with the sun and rain,
straining to see the subtleties.

He's moving closer to the house,
I call the children in from the washing line
they've been out all day
flapping like larks on the breeze.
I hold them too my cheek smell their folded hair.

He's outside the window now,
I haven’t moved for days.
The house growls as the wind changes direction
and he's sitting at my table,
insects sprawling from his outstretched hands.

It only takes a touch.

I’m in the top field
listening for two travelers
as they cross the moors,
one is very weak so I tell him
he wont make the journey.

Then I move a little closer,
I know he can hear me.

Wow Keith! This is fantastic.

There have been other great poems on all days but I'm barely able to comment while I'm trying to write to the prompt. I had to say something about this one though. Start to finish--loved it.