The Vast Fields (Poetry)

Acres stretch themselves —
unroll between us even now
their battered fences leaning with the wind
or fallen — posts left rotting in the ground.

The crops we sowed so many seasons in the past
have withered back — self-seeded — grown
to rogue versions of themselves —
grotesque and over-tall — their leaves
the maps of random variegation.

Across this wild unravelling the stunted saplings loop
an aimless line to nowhere — all their promised green
short-lived to shrivelled yellow
and grass sleeps long within the husk — too tired
for singing.

One black and burned-out shell of oak
still sharp against the hill’s smooth rim —
the tree of family — the wreck of forests thunder-struck
and clouds smoke thin
curling trails of too-late warning.

It is a stricken land — the internal landscape of regret
where the smell of rain lingers —
taints the air with layers of fine grit.

And high in some self-built ivied tower
I watch sunsets come and go
take comfort from their coloured silences
before they fade and dusk wraps thought and field
and empty trees —
fades them into shadows and remoulds
contours — losing edges — blending soft
the sockets of the skull and shattered rocks
harshly treated — mellowed — soothed to dust.

The light upon the road retreating fast — its vein
dissolving inch by mile —
the link to the horizon — cuts the view
where no one walks — no stranger — no lost friend
who strayed into this reverie unasked —
they who left the valley to itself
and me to witness what I cannot change
nor hope to fathom.