This appeared in Raintown Review.
It’s just as though the hills were breaking up,
Freeing the little men to roam and search
For little women in the barns and byres,
To ride the cows across the salty marsh,
And cook spaghetti in our barley fields.
The hills seem stout enough. A bit of steam
Is natural; and if at night the songs
To Trinken send the black bears out in search
Of warm and quiet hollows, I am much
Like bears. A hot wind chivvies everyone.
The children say it’s party-time. They claim
That steam makes clouds, and clouds make rain, and rain—
I can’t remember what rain does. I’ve seen
Melted rock like stone soup. What if the bears
Get hot feet? There are 30 little men
In caravans on Brother Framley’s verge,
With duckpin sets and pantomimes and tall
Hats the shape of fungi. We are packed;
The mare has her best bridle on; the dog
Has wrapped his ball in grass to keep it cool.
The little men will have this place. I’ll miss
The fireplace I built myself, the slate
Hearth, and the smell of clover overnight.
A little man dressed in my boots has rung
The bell. He wants my whetstone and my wife.
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