The CornfieldA Poem by David Lewis PagetIt
was twenty seven years since he Had
been back to the farm, Where
he’d played out in the cornfield there With
Jenny, Jim and Arn, They
had been just country kids enjoying Life
beneath the sun, In
those great wide open spaces Where
they’d had the space to run. There
were trees to climb and nests to find And
eggs collected, rare, That
they’d kept in little boxes, In
divisions, they would share, Just
as each shared with each other Jenny’s
kisses in the corn, Though
they never told each other, Jenny
said, it ‘wasn’t form.’ Now
he looked at the old farmhouse Saw
the shutters hanging off, And
the wooden porch collapsing In
the corner, by the trough, While
the leadlight in the front door Had
been shattered by a stone, The
verandah posts were mildewed And
the garden overgrown. And
the rocking chair his grandad had Sat
rocking in, outside, Still
sat in its dismay, paint peeling Since
the old man died, There
was such an air of melancholy Round
that empty place, He
had bought it on a whim, and for a song To
lend it grace. He
would paint it and rejuvenate, He
thought, would bring it back, To
those days of fun and laughter that Had
sounded round the track, Then
he stood and gazed out from the porch Toward
the old cornfield, That
was head-high in old cornstalks, weeds, And
memories revealed. He
settled down that starless night In
that old rocking chair, As
the pall of night descended And
a chill crept through the air, He
imagined shadows of his friends That
gambolled in the corn, With
their childlike cries of wonder Like
his own childhood, reborn. But
his gaze became more troubled On
his brow, he wore a frown, As
he thought on pretty Jenny How
she’d grown, and put him down, She
had taken up with Arnie When
her breasts began to show, And
they’d wandered in the cornfield Doing
what, he didn’t know. He
had thought that she had loved him, He
had thought that she had cared, But
he caught them in the cornfield And
he saw her breasts were bared, She
was lying there with Arnie Both
oblivious to all, So
he’d crept back to the farmhouse Turned
his face against the wall. He
was bitter, he could taste it In
his mouth like bitter-wort, And
his mind was more than hasty In
the remedy he sought, So
he took his father’s matches While
his heart and mind had reeled, When
the wind was blowing westwards He
set fire to that cornfield. It
was dry, went up so fast when he Had
thought it worth a try, To
flush them out, too late the flames Licked
up toward the sky, It
roared and crackled through the corn And
then he’d heard them scream, The sweat broke out upon his brow Remembering
the scene. The
field was well ablaze when Jenny Suddenly
appeared, Running,
screaming out the corn Much
worse than he had feared, Her
dress and hair were blazing She
had gone up like a torch, And
fell right at his feet where he Was
watching, from the porch. They’d
had to search for Arnie, he was Just
a pile of bones, Deep
in the ashes of the corn Charred
black there, on his own, And
no-one guessed who lit the fire They
thought a lightning strike, But
he, sat on the rocking chair Sat
shivering, all night. The
sun came up so slowly as it Lit
the breaking dawn, It
spread its glow upon the porch He’d
sat, from night to morn, His
eyes were fixed out on the spot Where
Jenny burned and fell, He
never blinked again, he’d gone To
his own brand of hell! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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