Sleeping in fields

The Cider threw me off my feet,
steeped before an apple sleep,
watching bats cross coastal downs,
head first goes the hedgerow clown.

The day had yawned and let me be,
crusty eyes blink morning trees,
filtered fresh behind olive blinds,
a straw hat halo that fades with time.

Pulling corn stalks I make my stand
and take a scarecrow's offered hand.
The ground turns hard with little trace
of summer ways in a winter place.

As snow takes hold blown into drifts
I see a shape as day light shifts.
A body curled against the cold,
the scarecrow whispers,

it's time, you're old.