Monday, 1 December 2014

In memoriam Joseph Ashby…


If this field…

If this field could cry, then it would;
If this field could cry, it would cry
For hare, for badger, for silence,
As the owl cries, but not for care.

If this field could weep, then it would;
If this field could weep, it would weep
For unity, for history,
As the cloud weeps, but not for rain.

If this field could grieve, then it would;
If this field could grieve, it would grieve
For tilth, for furrow, for the plough,
As the horse grieves, but not for ease.

If this field could pass, then it would;
If this field could pass, it would pass
For myth, for symbol, for tribute,
As the days pass, but not for night.

What once was plenty was all our fathers’
And our mothers’ too; was shared in labour
And enjoyment; was permanent and firm
As the ridges and footsteps they planted:
Knowing never to cry, weep, grieve, or pass
By this field that grew them, formed them entire.

If this field could cry, then it would;
If this field could weep, then it would;
If this field could grieve, then it would;
If this field could pass, then it would;
But it will not lie easily
Entombed beneath base usury.

If this field could live, then it would;
If this field could live… it would live.

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