Field Poem by Thomas P White

[i]

Boxed in by the odour of hawthorn
The small fields take shape
As it moves through undulations
To form its own unique centre.

Embedded in its notional centre
An old sheep dip in someway
Represents the genesis of thing
As if sweeps and gently expands

Each blade of grass into acreage
That can never dodge or escape
The onerous task of spurting out
Its miraculous clumps of fertility.

[ii]

Darkness turns up with a huge hush
To still the lush hedgerows
That have swayed through the day
In total agreement with the winds.

Beneath my feet each little hollow
Grows moist, as if for some reason
They too are unnerved by a night
That blinds me with the sudden fear

Of not knowing what rustles beyond
My town land of innumerable fields
Vividly colliding with each other
Beneath hedgerows, as if wanting out.


[First appeared in New Irish Writings
Irish Press circa 1983]