A pocket full of field mice

[Keith]

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

I look to the fields and know
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 to 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. He's sitting at my table, insects sprawl
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.
I move a little closer, knowing he can hear me.