Fields harvest scythed,
their corn beards now burnt.
Once a yellow stubble itching.
I scratch and scour my
rash of old barley lands,
high summer memories;
earthen, stoney, dry.
Mice and field creatures
along their ways.
Through stalks and stalkers,
haunted by feline memories
hunted by sharp eyed raptors.
There were these flames that
cleansed the acrid ground.
Smoke trickling grey
on fired fields.
Over rolling and hills this
was a blacken renewal.
And Old Testament gods,
when not cleaving and smiting,
burnt the ripe barley fields.
A punishment for disobedience.
©️ Dai Fry 10th August 2020