Princes
We were out where we shouldn't be.
Walking hedges, robbing nests and swinging sticks to whack the ears of wheat, fancying that we might bag a rabbit with darts and slings and catapults.
No harm, save the treading down of stalks through farmer's barley corn.
We were Princes of that land. Fearless, with packs upon our backs and makeshift weapons in our hand.
But the wind then rose in a sudden darkening squall
and we sheltered in a copse while gusts battered low the barley and the wheat and the woods in early evening pall began to scream.
Treetops thrashed and whined a ghoulish howl
and heavy drops lashed knocked-leaf-fall all around.
We took fright at nature's passing wrath.
Much like the fear that rose from heart to mouth
when skipping through Kings Hedges Wood,
black rook stared and stood its path too close
for one so young alone.
Such fear arose in us that all the Princes ran.
They ran for mother-comfort, mother-comfort in the home, mother's gingham kitchen apron by her new lit warming fire, mother's towel rub and hair tidy with her brush and tortoise comb.
Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2020
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