May 2019
YET THIS WILL GO ONWARD THE SAME
( for Jennifer Maas )
wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touch the horizon
I follow my uncle
following the plough
Dolly the horse laughing
I could live
in this moment
as once I did
but this time
for always
live in its forever
I have stolen
the moment
from time
hid it in my mind
after all
it is mine
I command the moment
to "uuPPTHERE..move on!"
or "woeOOOH...slow down!"
I check it
with a "chUCK!" or "tttSK!"
it stops and shakes its head
harness bells in the breeze
the only sound
in this world
wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touching the horizon
( for Jennifer Maas )
wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touch the horizon
I follow my uncle
following the plough
Dolly the horse laughing
I could live
in this moment
as once I did
but this time
for always
live in its forever
I have stolen
the moment
from time
hid it in my mind
after all
it is mine
I command the moment
to "uuPPTHERE..move on!"
or "woeOOOH...slow down!"
I check it
with a "chUCK!" or "tttSK!"
it stops and shakes its head
harness bells in the breeze
the only sound
in this world
wave after wave
of earth
the furrows touching the horizon
***
"He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive."
Italian Proverb.
The title is taken of course from Hardy's
In Time of ‘The Breaking of Nations’
which I learnt as a schoolboy way back in the day and Uncle would get me to say as we set off across the fields...it was a poem "he could be."
I
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.
II
Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.
III
Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.
Jennifer's mum...my aunt Peggy took the first colour photographs we had ever seen on a visit back to her home in Cork all the way from mythical Chicago. We were all amazed to see that Uncle Michael's green corduroy trousers were actually GREEN as if we needed to see a photo to tell us what our own eyes could see...but a photo made them more real. I always remember tracing my finger along the green furrows of his corduroy as well as tagging along behind him as he ploughed with Dolly and all his commands which if I copied...Dolly only laughed at...she was only in love with my uncle's voice...as I was...he was a great teller of tales and could make up worlds of his own all on his own to my great surprise and delight.
I still follow in his furrows as the tilled land goes on forever as does this one stolen moment. I remember how hard it was to lift a leg with the amount of earth stuck to it making it almost impossible to make the next footstep.
I tried to copy everything about him...his gait...his tone of voice...his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek...his lovely laugh. His mind. His wonderful wonderful mind....that...made a poet of me.
"He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive."
Italian Proverb.
The title is taken of course from Hardy's
In Time of ‘The Breaking of Nations’
which I learnt as a schoolboy way back in the day and Uncle would get me to say as we set off across the fields...it was a poem "he could be."
I
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.
II
Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.
III
Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.
Jennifer's mum...my aunt Peggy took the first colour photographs we had ever seen on a visit back to her home in Cork all the way from mythical Chicago. We were all amazed to see that Uncle Michael's green corduroy trousers were actually GREEN as if we needed to see a photo to tell us what our own eyes could see...but a photo made them more real. I always remember tracing my finger along the green furrows of his corduroy as well as tagging along behind him as he ploughed with Dolly and all his commands which if I copied...Dolly only laughed at...she was only in love with my uncle's voice...as I was...he was a great teller of tales and could make up worlds of his own all on his own to my great surprise and delight.
I still follow in his furrows as the tilled land goes on forever as does this one stolen moment. I remember how hard it was to lift a leg with the amount of earth stuck to it making it almost impossible to make the next footstep.
I tried to copy everything about him...his gait...his tone of voice...his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek...his lovely laugh. His mind. His wonderful wonderful mind....that...made a poet of me.
