A Pocketful of Rye

The rye field is tall and thick; the grain is gold.
All day long the blackbirds sing and chant,
Pecking the children’s noses. How they run about gleefully
In the same place; there is nowhere else to go.
The eternal sunrise gilds above their heads –
They are haloed for their aimlessness.

Surely feeding the birds is not mischief,
At least they are not baking them. They would prefer
Bread and honey to fit with the gold –
This is where they chase it;
Circling blackbirds lead the way.
Their path is a roundabout, yet each turn seems so different.

Where else is there to go? The grass is too tall
To see beyond; the children can only follow the blackbirds
And their enchanting songs. Sixpence, sixpence! –
Is that still needed? There is rye everywhere, it is free.
There is enough to steal a little in their pockets,
Not for whiskey, but a little sunrise at home, maybe.