You wear the field around you
Like a gown of mud
Which flows away from your gnarled knee-caps.
The hem of your gown
Is the sparkle in the stream
Which is stitched around your feet.
Your fingers reach skyward
And wave to the stars at night
Frightening the children
In their stories of witches on broomsticks.
'These are no broomsticks,' you sigh.
'It's just me waiting for new Spring garlands
To deck my old cold branches
With light green,
Bright green colours.'
My mind boggles at the thought
Of all you've seen,
All you've heard and known
As the centuries have flown -
This muddy field -
Was it once a meadow?
Or perhaps there are traces of a hamlet,
Homes now sunken into the Earth.
Did children sing in your outstretched arms -
Sit on your bony knee-caps and play,
Their chubby fingers finding Acorns
In your hair -
Trip around on the hem of your gown,
Washing their feet in the sparkle there?