The Lark’s Field
We’d lie hidden in patches of soft grass.
Flat circles where horses had lain down
among waist-high cocksfoot, sorrel and dock.
Concealed by coarse-stemmed couch.
Worlds away from the nearby town.
We’d chew on timothy stem, rest easy
while distant dots that were larks,
scrabbled above us, rising and dropping,
bobbing upwards like bubble-streams
in a cream-soda glass.
Tom Moody has an MA in creative writing (Newcastle). Published work includes articles, short stories, radio script and poetry in:, Orbis, Three Drops from the Cauldron, Indigo Dreams, Algebra of Owls, Ink Sweat & Tears, Riggwelter, Ink Tears, and Prole.
atriumpoetry.com 