Ripe fields of corn where poppies grow
From seeds the farmer did not sow
Each year they come and seem to know
The time is right to give their show
In the breeze dance vivid red
On yellow from the corn made bed
Survived the burning’s so it’s said
As did the thistle all thought dead
Field mice running for the corn
Well trodden pathways they had worn
Time they’ve known since they were born
All want the best from husks they’re torn
Don’t miss this moment if you’re there
If you’re in the country do take care
When you see mice running be aware
They’ll fight to the death to get their share
© 2008 David Threadgold
Rambling Riddles & Rhymes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I remember chasing the field mice through the corn sheaves when I was a child. Lovely country feel to this one. Took me back. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX