RYE Comments

If I were a rye field not a daughter and you were a
man on a walk.
Was I sown so early and grown so far that
the east wind got hold so I made waves.
Would you come in my waves then?

Yes suddenly you stood there as I dreamt in blue clothes dark
moustaches and high rubber boots on the edge of me.
Then you flew off
with your belly-side tight across rye buck so hot it smelled of
freshly baked bread.

I opened myself new places in long winding passages,
higher waves. Then you had to look at your watch as you were flying.
Had to know how long you had stayed afloat.

There was a hollow after you in cracked spikes the body's
fluttering imprint in the moment of falling.

But I have several acres of land and an imagination which has
survived countless numbers of fairytales.
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