The Haystack

“I dare you to jump off the top,” we would say
To whoever had turned up to play on each day.
Billy, or Rosie, or Joseph, or Mike,
The boy with the flag on the back of his bike,
The two older boys whose names I don’t know,
Who chased off the bully who bloodied my nose.
All of these memories came back to me
The day that they burned down the haystack.
Beautiful Rosie and our day in the hay,
When only the two of us turned up to play,
And when it got dark, she asked me to stay.
So, in the haystack we continued to lay.
Rosie was an angel, a princess to me,
Until that day, girls were a mystery, you see?
Though what might have followed was never to be,
Even now, to this very day I still dream
Of that day that we spent at the haystack.
At the end of the summer, with tears in our eyes,
Every one of us turned up to say our goodbyes,
The day that they burned down the haystack.


Rich Rurshell lives in Suffolk, England with his wife and son. A childhood fascination with monsters and adventure led to writing Horror stories, though Rich sometimes writes Sci-Fi and Fantasy. Poetry is a new venture for Rich. Visit him on his Facebook
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