A pocket full of field mice

[burrealist]

Mother was too pale
to cough black, so Father (I wonder, is Father coughing black?)
became the house;
a face of weathered granite
melded with stones, kept crooked
by the constant wind raging
off the moors. (He must be a stoic man. He must be full of responsibility and its burdens. Excellent introduction.)

I look to the fields and know (I suggest using something other than "and" here, something that is open-ended like "I". You can elaborate the line and enhance the complexity as we've now come to the second stanza.)
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 (Excellent connection, now there's a relationship between you and the scarecrow simply by repeating the word "listen". Since his relationship is now established, I'm given reason to believe there is a more subtle relationship between the scarecrow and your parents. Maybe the relationship of silence, so you are calling out for them to listen. I hope this repeated word and this suggested relationship is foreshadowing something to come.)
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. (As am I now 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. (Is this stanza meant to feel rushed or paced slowly? Saying the scarecrow is moving closer excites me and the way these words flow, it feels like you're racing to bring the children inside. Then you end with smelling their hair, so now I'm conflicted, because that's a rather serene thought. Is this conflict intentional?)

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. (So the foreshadowing earlier lead to a rather unpredictable turn of events. I'm shaken now the events have lead me this way. This poem is very dark and very personal. I'm also confused by how elusive these travelers seem. Are they the children you were protecting, are they new faces for your parents? Are they new characters all-together? This will entice me to journey through the poem again. The mystery, I think, is appropriate. I also feel like this poem was not given a proper resolution. Was that deliberate? I can understand feeling no personal resolution given what I believe is the subject-matter. So maybe these two characters at the end are supposed to remain strangers. I don't know! Overall, I am very inspired by this work and I hope you continue to write.)