Across the fields, well past the midst
Of life, the shadows of the paths.
The changing of the harsh afternoon light.
A feather in his throat and watching
Things tumbling slowly. Across the fields
The word strides, so slowly that sound
Loses itself, dissolves in the mist over the
Stubble fields. And the walker? He
Peers across the fields at the fading
Horizon. Tries to step out of his
Shadow, while dusk falls around
His head. The dead rustle among
The autumn leaves or rest on the branches
Of the past. If there should be a farewell,
Let it wait and bring a little 'wood
To the forest and peat to the moors'.
