Hayfield

He was always going back
To that day with his father 
To that golden hayfield without trouble
Where an old man could outstrip a youth
Always going back to that hireling hayfield
Where there were badgers to be killed for bounty
Father fast as a King City jackrabbit, strong, 
Free of the death machine that would take him.
He was always going back to that place of fatherly love
Not stuck with pins, abandoned in cheap hotel rooms
Drunken soldiers banging 
calling through the door for his sister
And he only ten.
Away from the casual violence of 
Saturday night pistol whippings in front of the movie house.
To that field full of stolen inventions, 
Repair shop of lost dreams cracked engine blocks
Hearts tighter than the rusty frozen bolts my grandfather 
Could loosen with his bare fingers
To that wide bright California hayfield
Where an old man could outrun a strapping youth, 
Golden air hazy with dragonflies.

Author: Duncan MacNae

Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees. duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com View all posts by Duncan MacNae