Monday, 27 January 2014

Stubble

Gran's house was an ice box. Beyond her flint
walls and hedge, a field edging a rise of
hills without any rock, tree for windbreak.
In winter, the field was a patchwork of
rills filled with stones. Autumn, they burnt stubble.
A blaze of bitter flames, black smoke blowing
towards Gran's flint walled cottage. The only
time the place ever felt warm. Probably.

5 comments:

  1. Perfect poem for a Winter's afternoon...
    true memory-tight stuff of dreams!
    Geez... this is a wonderful poem!

    ReplyDelete
  2. ...blaze of bitter flames

    Wow! (as we say over here)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Really nice to hear from you both. Thank you for the heartening comments.

    ReplyDelete

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