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A crisp winters walk down the lane brings me to the old gate...

The Field

Fdf5205c-8b5b-4da8-a6dc-63fe28d680a9by Billy J. Stewart28 Dec 2013

I gaze through crystal hedges,
Light scattered, rainbow hue,
Crisp in the whiteness of winter morning,
Heaven pours down.
Walking on tenderness, broken grass,
Breath of life betrays my presence.
I reach the old gate.
The rope untangles with fumbling tugs,
Cold and stiff from the night.
With creaking clumsiness its lain aside,
Opening before my feet, the field.
Stubble stalks, bristle blades,
Serrated edge of ditches.
Frozen webs cover the ocean of meadow.
There lie the tracks of nightshift beasts,
Cut in swath,
Over the dry-stone wall to God-knows-where.
This was no mans land to fritter,
Though toil we did, and sweat through summer sun.
And in the evening we sat down in the field,
Held in its palm.
This was my patch of last retreat,
Forever catching snow and sun and summer rain.
And in autumn yield a harvest bounty,
Deep from furrowed brow.
Now in the newness of this dawn,
The field lies open,
For me to walk to the hill
And catch the gentle early sunshine as my reward.
It feels good to tread this sod.