Harvest sun streams through the open mesh
of this hat
freckling his bee-sting cheek bones with the flecks of light
through the weave and the weft
as through the stubble fields
I slipping round the mud perimeter
round like the band of his hat.
That scarecrow hat –
all at an angle
tiny sprinkles of light
like ginger fur stroked to static
as though milk were streaming through
strangely perforated cheeks
like a watering can.
The sun is shining like a whiskered cat –
he’s thatched by this hat –
and it feels like it tickles
like he draws noughts and crosses
on the soles of my feet.
© Rosalind Watson 2013
Ros Watson has been a teacher all her working life in the secondary state system and in prisons and in a psychiatric unit before retiring. She and her husband Paul have been converting a barn in West Wales and continue to build around themselves. Freed from full time teaching and family commitments she found time to both write and paint. She is an active member of the PENfro Poets and finds great inspiration in the history and scenery of this area from the sea to the Preselis.