Field Stories

My fictitious (but firmly based in the actual) day has 410 miracle moments noted now. Mr has constructed a go-cart to bring wood up from the fields, as we can't afford a quad, the ground is often very boggy and the paths are growing in faster than we can clear them. Plus, the cart is massive fun. The ash tree at the field entrance has grown more rapidly than expected. The wheelbarrow is still useful for smaller jobs, and the go-cart is harder to explain in four lines, hence the wheelbarrow is rolled out here. 

Handles lifted, the wheelbarrow trundles
Under the solid bay tree, under the tangle
Of wild rose busy lacing a bower over
An old dumped heap of empty things

The ash tree sapling we talked of
Digging up is thickening into
Firewood, the roots are
Too deep for spadework

Boy will be dragging exercise books
From his bag, ready to learn facts
Processes and the sardonic
Exchange of wit

Dog reads the scents
They tell her field stories
Tales of the fox and pheasant
Who had who for dinner
Now we have witnessed one
Yellow leaf, the crackles of hot colour
In the canopy are leaping fast
Turning on like strings of fairy lights

Mud is parched, in ridges, even
Edging to dust, how it does in the
Dry days of summer, when my feet
Are always powdered brown

As we walk I enjoy the thought
Of disclosing my droll impulsive purchase
A brandy bottle held in a miniature replica
Wooden cannon, to be brought out after dinner

Sunshine, when you are smiling
You are part of it, molecules of
Vivacious clement illumination
Bustling through the grass

Sometimes in sadness the sun will
Reach out to you like kind arms
Shadows in full view, the reversals
Laid down, sharply defined

Twig ends of branch stacked
Have a natural inclination to form
A sphere, like a roll of tumbleweed
Eager to bounce into play


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