The fields are old,
furrows run deep through their barren path,
the last time they were ploughed, was a year ago,
after last sunlight,
preceeding last snowfall,
they are not fertile,
they lay ancient,
maybe they just lie,
maybe they're filled to the brim with old bones,
they store knowledge within their clods,
just occasionally,
now and again a creature crawls over their surface,

It is not a field with furrows, but an ageing face,
A face that needs replenishing,
brushing tenderly with restorative fingertips,
fingertips that soothe with moisture cream,
collecting a nightmare and creating a dream!
(C) Livvi