Poetry by Edward ian Armchair

On a High Hillside

A summer’s day,
Sun is shining bright,
The corn is high so I can’t see; flying my kite on a high hillside.

Oh! Suddenly,
You give me such a fright,
Standing tall, standing over me; walking your dog on a high hillside.

Cap on head,
Shotgun cocked,
A broad smile, questioning me; taking my hand on a high hillside.

Happens once more,
On a lonely day,
The corn is high and you’re whipping me; running in my shorts on a high hillside.

Fee, Fi and Fo, Fum,
You and your brothers,
Chase me and catch me; strung from an oak tree, on a high hillside.

Hey Mr. Crow Man,
Walking past my door,
You know the truth, you can shout for me; you know what happens on a high hillside.

You know what happens on a high hillside.

Edward says...

A true tale of childhood memories. As kids we used to play in farmland called the Hilly Fields. This was just field after field of corn, with trees to climb, hidden ponds to catch stickleback and idyllic mounds of sun-baked clay. There was never any fear as children and our parents trusted us enough to play all day long and come home at tea-time. One sunny summer's day I was up the fields by myself just walking through the corn. I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old, unable to see over the corn. Suddenly, there in front of me was a giant of a man, flat cap, golden labrador and a shot gun over his arm, the farmer. He started talking, asking questions, going on and on, let me stroke his dog, eventually he just went away, I went home thinking nothing of it - of course I do now. Another day, two or three of us, myself, my cousin and a friend from over the road were up the Hilly Fields walking along the little dirt track that separated the fields. Suddenly, two tall, blond-haired, pale (almost albino) teenagers appeared in front of us. These weren't locals. They then grabbed handfuls of the tall, ripe corn and began whipping our bare legs, we ran and ran and ran. We were scared, but thought no more of it once safe at home - of course I do now. A final memory of a stormy summer afternoon, sheltering in our front porch, a tartan blanket covering us with raging thunder and lightning outside. Counting the time between lightning flash and thunder bolt to tell how far away the centre of the storm was. Then, walking past, heavy, dirty sack thrown over his shoulder, was a local character known to everyone as the Crow Man. His job was to shoot crows and pigeons that damaged the crops on the farmland that surrounded us, his sack full of that days catch, his supper for that evening. He worked for the farmer, he knew the things that went on up on the high hillside. He knew. Edward