Dedicated to Victoria Cutelli Caulfield, a true, lover of life.
In fields of weaving wheat, I sense,
The morning strikes a note
Where Capricorn ascends on high
And buzzing honey bees do float.
There’s a gentle spirit in the air
Of quiet, intriguing light
And the rustle of the golden heads
In rows, pervades as right.
Within the clods, bronze beetles creep,
Small spiders spin their web,
Earthworms writhing deep in soil
Aerating their dank bed.
Grey hares from the stubble rise
To graze on patches, green
Whilst, overhead the goshawk glides
Silently, unseen.
Distant hills of rolling green
In patterned fields of grass
Where cattle graze in unison
And time is slow to pass.
In the dale, the tractor
Murmurs quietly at its job
As the mulboard turns the cleated earth
In even rows of sod.
Above the warming, summer sun
Bathes it all in gold
And the farmer wipes his sweating brow
And smiles, as joy enfolds….
For magnificence in any form
Is hard to quantify,
But the luck of Jobe and good hard work
Calls home, beneath this sky.
M.
Taranaki N.Z.
7 May 2020
This poem is a celebration of life, the realization that wonderment and beauty and true satisfaction can be found at your fingertips, at your workplace, at the warm hearth of your home, in the arms of your woman, at the the tiny, seemingly insignificant things of beauty which arise in the course of your every day.
Be it an allotment tilled, a backyard lawn, freshly mown or a field of wheat, ripening in the sun, the sudden realisation that herein lies wonder...and the joy of life it engenders in your heart, found right here, right at this moment... Beneath this very sky.
M.