Midweek Poem: Thread

Thread

There are mandrakes in the wheat field
and ligan deeped in sea.
Bells ring in the buoys;
she sings beneath the trees.

Name the stones you count on
as you wind the passage down.
Name the threads you sever
as you tip into the sound.

There are hedgerows round the wheat fields,
soft scratchings at the door.
Antlered is the umbra
like the eyes you knew before

the patterns were unpeopled
and the seams unstitched by rite,
when a mother and a father
still slipped the herd at night

to watch you through the window
while sash and pane would drum.
Their breath still maps the glass
to show you where you're from.

Down the furrows to the hedgerows,
through the marrow, out to sea
run the ley lines, loosely calling
as she sings beneath the trees.