On the walk from the station

I reached out and plucked

the squat church from its rest -

rooks rising in a squabble of black

as I brushed off the soot of prayer -

and placed it in my rucksack.

I poured water from the pond

into a flask, ducks quacking over

the rim, folded the community hall

into an origami daisy and prised up

flagstones that tried to play hop-

scotch when I wrapped them in tinfoil.

When I laid the miniatures on my table t

hey barely spanned my forearm.

Yet all I'd wanted was to see

if the gold that ripened into rapeseed

still grew behind your house.

First published in Starbeck Orion