Crop Circles

We know August by how yellow our bedroom at dawn,
how rich the paints nature daubs outside our window –
blue slash of sky, ribbons of hedge, poppies, gold flag of corn.

Our bedroom eyes this van Gogh view, our window
a silent watcher of that instant our eyes never capture
when the golden flag is branded by three concentric rings.

Circles are an interruption we expect this time of year,
as certain as swallows flying south in autumn.
Blind portholes to a secret place.

I like to walk in the corn,
so tall it sways
above my head.
All I see
is gold spears,
blue sky,
escape.

You can’t see the crop circles at ground level
only the shock of crushed, broken corn.
Village talk grows like mistletoe.
Whispers of alien landings.
We are divided.

He says bored teenagers, me, night winds,
a mini tornado, twisting in perfect geometry.
When wind blows, it laps at ears of corn and I think
of stones dropped in a still lake. On the surface,
ring ripples spread like village rumours.

When sunlight torches water, it makes a window
to below, and you can watch
small pebbles
somersault
and
sink.

Seven league boots, I say, someone night-walking.
On tiptoe so they don’t disturb us sleeping.
Sometimes my mouth is an open window to ideas
best kept secret. His mouth shapes a capital O,
shimmers a smirk. When he laughs, I hear seagulls.

But when he is gone, boy-racing his quad bike
in determined swipes over the back field
and I am up to my elbows in pigswill,
I try stepping large, balanced on my toes.

I wonder how far is seven leagues,
and where my other foot might fall?

 

First published in a fine line, New Zealand Poetry Society magazine, March 2019

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