Where is the Real World
There was a broken circle in my field of wheat this morning.
Can’t explain it.
Walked through the wheat scratching my head with a stalk.
Can’t explain.
There are shapes in the circle, shapes which look like
the shapes and spaces of this world. Lands and seas.
Can’t explain them.
Fell asleep in the scratchy stalks of my field in the sunshine.
Can’t say why.
Awoke in England, I think, lying there, floating above it,
I think.
Lying here, drifting away, like a balloon out of control,
but avoiding the sun and the stars and the other worlds.
I think.
Or am I lying below, in my field with my heels on the ground?
Difficult to know.
Hard to discern this place and know my place in it.
Can’t explain
why I’m floating here, unsure if I’m drifting above or below.
I might fall. I might fall up or down. I don’t know which.
Can’t explain my confusion.
But, I’ll know when I stop spinning round, seeing the stars
in the sunshine.
But how will I get down if I’m already below, my heels grounded
in reality,
in England, in my field of wheat, scratching my head, looking,
up at the shapes in the space of the sky drifting above me.
Can’t explain.
First published by Pilcrow and Dagger, Midsummer Night’s Dream Issue, June, 2015
Crop-Marked
Only look
down
and
Medieval England lies
there still.
The old strips,
the common land
not yet enclosed
the common people
not yet expelled.
Then there are the newer parts.
The squares
of enclosed fields
divisive hedges
the common people
expelled
unseen
buried
in time.
All the crop-marks of history
lying there
exposed
even when invisible.
But those circles
are revelations
unexplained
by history.
It’s unclear now
if they are new or old
modern mystery making
or ancient
spirit visitations,
fortifications,
tombs,
or
another
mystery
still
the crop-marks can’t tell us.
First published in Kelly Austin-Rolo Challenge, Ekphrastic Review, Feb 23 2024
Lost in the Wheat-Field
She was lost,
lost in the wheat-field
following the tractor tracks
to nowhere.
First published in Fevers Of The Mind Ekphrastic 9, April 2025
From the Clouds
I’ve seen a dragon in the clouds,
a humming bird
and a tea table
set for tea.
Some say they’ve seen angels,
or fairy kings and queens.
They have all stayed a while,
those shapes in the clouds
but none have left
and none have returned
until now.
The angel who left earlier is now returning
and she’s not alone.
She’s dragging them with her,
all those who were hiding in the cornfield.
They don’t want to go.
They hang on to each other,
limbs contorting.
But go they must.
She has no mercy.
Their corn spills out
as she looks back
one last time.
First published in Eccentric Orbits 5, Summer 2024
Shrouded
They’re following me,
like black vultures circling.
It’s still just October
not yet Halloween
but they’re shrouded in winter’s mist
almost as dark as the shrouds
they wear to cover themselves,
to cloak themselves for their journey.
Shrouds like dusty abayas
once black, now
uniformly grey,
shapeless,
bloodless,
formless,
lifeless
grey.
Only their mouths still red
like vultures feasting
on death
mouths
stained by this final feast.
The feast of what was left
of the harvest.
And now there will be
nothing,
nothing any more.
Nothing.
First published in the Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal, The Harvest and the Reaping issue, October 2023
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
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