Field mice in my pocket

.

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

When I look to the fields
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
and he’s sitting at my table,
insects sprawling 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 won’t make the journey.

Then I move a little closer,
I know he can hear me.