Field

 

I could run my fingers along the mud-brown furrows
through tufts trussed up with the precision of a barber,
trace the shape of your sweeping curve.
My field is lined with plaits of green.

But harvest stubble stiffens dry
from gold to grey under a sun-scorched sky
and Autumn dew brings subtle hues
of loss, yet sparkles in the frost.

Winter winds scream warning
when I lie down with you
where sleet skims angled over stone
our names etched frozen on the flint.

But Spring breezes wipe the frost
caress recumbent spirits
cajole us back with promises
so once again you bristle in the sun
a sweeping curve lined with plaits of green.

 

field

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