Upon the green ideas, a summer field so clean and most interesting manouvered. A torch alight in a Sky of revelling, its shoe gave the day its footprint. No panic, no withering blossom of delinquancy, no rush to be somewhere, somewhere tragic where all the fellow fields emerge in sombre prayer and ask “Are you next?”
No need for a moment’s thought at the breathlessness of nature’s beauty, it captures you before a single frame of sweet imagination forms itself into images or streams or swan shapes in the vast quarry of your minds eye.
It is picturesque, laid out against the skyline in complimentary cohesion, almost waving back across the landscape like a son leaving home. Gritty, determined to lie here on its own in the fullest time of year, when days last forever, when scatterings become immortal, when sunlit garden’s smile at a field’s feet and ask it to be careful.
The harvest brings so many things – the lustful shapings of an approaching Autumn, the courage and desire in a season’s landslide, a breeze to blow across the plains and drift the soft remaining skin of this field’s embrace.
Months from now it will be bare, bereft of all its treasure, adrift in a vast countryside of panic, moisture and clanging with roots and trees falling over it in the drunken storm, its peace a quiet reflection of many moons passed, its joy a distant relative of its desperation but these moments seem so far away, for now this remains a field of dreams where no harvest rolls in, a land that answers to no-one, a piece of earth that will never die, a field so warm, a field so full of Sunlight.