The Barley Fields

Baked tarmac cracks in the heat of the day
And the smell of scorched earth shimmers.
Dust and insects film my prickling face.

My throat feels tight with the effort of not crying
And my ears feel deaf with the need to hear your footsteps.

Relief sinks through my stomach like an inwards punch when,
As you come, you say nothing.
I glower my disgust onto bees and flowers.

Raising my head I exit first, experiencing mild empowerment.
Before diving home to pour pain onto cool pillows.