Poetry: Playing at Stalks

The fields were ours, all plenty and made believed, Poppy,
Barley, Rape seed, daisy stalks around my wrist, And pea pods stolen and cabbage
leaf. We knew every tree by name, our names for them, Felt every
nettle lick on the day I fell with my bike from earth made bridge
to trolls ditch. I had learnt to ride it in those fields, Believing
dad still held the back of the seat to prevent tipping in tracker
marks. We knew every track and walked shoulder deep in snow-fill
ditches of snow thats never returned. You broke my nose when we
tried to play cricket and I didn’t see the ball, Blood on the corn.
Was it wheat or barley then? Blood on the corn as we ran, Through
shaven crop of yellows to claim freshly rolled bales as our
thrones, After school, when the sun was going down. All gone twin
brother, Under time and the fields covered with stone, New roads,
In the places we used to play and run.


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