NaPM April 16 2016

[Keith]

Feeding field mice

Mother had the colour of heather
Father became the house,
strong as granite, supportive as the stones
his back sheltered us all
from the raging moors.

When I worked the fields
the scarecrow saw me,
he was always talking.
When the sunlight peaks the barn
it shimmers across the crops,
it was then I could hear all things speak.

I watched the walls at night
facing the flames,
the children danced a shadow show.
He told me to watch
so I watched them leap above the fire
flying with the sun and rain,
setting the height of our summer crops,
getting higher each year.

I remember the children as a child
outside all day,
imaginations fit to fill the moors
and fuel the breath of dragons
yet gentle enough to feed the field mice
in the scarecrows pocket.

I can see them outside the window,
summer days dancing on their tiptoes.
The house grew warmer as the wind picked up fresh scent
blowing food onto our table,
we held hands and sang thanks in evensong.

It only takes our touches, to become all we make.

I’m in the top field
standing where my father stood
the children have grown, rooted with the fields
each year brighter than their mothers eyes,
stronger than the voice of the wind.

I put my arm around the scarecrow
and thank him for his service,
he doesn't answer any more
but I know he can hear me.