Stilts

I spider stride on match stalks
to slice a sea of eager childs' delight,
the fell stars at my feet awed,
like a distant me on my dead father's back.

Toffee-glassed fruit steam and squeals
pull me over fields of wheat and honey,
to a cloud-shadowed fold of marmalade blood
and a house where broken confetti once stood.

Now I the scarecrow a country-league span,
fast enough to dodge the chop and splatter,
his calloused hands of potato clay,
now near my ankles hide,
under my super-manly stride.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.