Crop Circles In The Morning Field

Crop Circles In The Morning Field

I woke before the village stirred,

Dawn leaning soft against the hill,

And word had travelled down the lane,

That something strange lay in the wheat.

We walked with flasks and folded arms,

Past hedgerows wet with silver dew,

And there it was beneath the sun,

A perfect whisper pressed in gold.

No broken stalks, no clumsy tread,

Just curves that bent as if in prayer,

Great sweeping arcs and smaller rings,

Like breath laid gently on the land.

Old Tom declared it lads at night,

With planks and rope and too much ale,

He swore he’d seen such tricks before,

When harvest moons were fat and low.

Yet standing there I felt no prank,

No muddy boots, no careless mark,

The wheat was folded, not destroyed,

As though it bowed to something kind.

A child reached out a timid hand,

And ran her fingers through the lines,

She said it felt like someone’s touch,

Still warm although the air was cold.

The dog would not step in the ring,

He circled wide and gave a whine,

Then sat and watched the empty sky,

As if awaiting further signs.

By noon the cameras lined the gate,

Reporters chasing little men,

And talk of lights and humming sounds,

That flickered over roofs at three.

I do not claim I saw a ship,

Nor shadows moving through the stars,

I only know the field looked blessed,

As if the earth had dreamed in shapes.

By evening half the crowd had gone,

The other half sold tea and maps,

The farmer stood with quiet eyes,

And wondered what it meant for him.

Next week the stalks will rise again,

The pattern fade beneath the plough,

And life return to ordinary days,

With bills and bins and market talk.

Still when I pass that gentle slope,

I slow my step and scan the grain,

Half hoping for another sign,

Half fearing what it might explain.

Perhaps it’s human, clever hands,

Perhaps it’s wind in playful mood,

Or something vast we’ve yet to name,

That brushes earth and leaves no harm.

All I can say is this was real,

The hush, the light, the standing crowd,

And in that circle of bent wheat,

We felt less small upon this ground.

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