Whenever we go north, we pass a small field which
is so beautiful, we always plan to stop one day and
walk into it. We’ve seen it in snow and in sunshine
and it always looks totally lovely. It’s clearly very
old, the stone walls have tiny curling ferns in the
cracks and behind it is a rising slope of hill.
A SCOTTISH FIELD
That ancient little field
Has always been there,
With its grass cropped short,
Its stone walls dusty
In the morning sun.
Each time we come this way,
We say that one day
We will sit in the middle of that field.
Pluck tiny blades of grass
And wind them round our fingers.
But this is a dream
That seems never to come true.
Yet even whilst we’re swooping past
In a cloud of elegiac dust,
Still we hold on to it.
© 2020 Gwen Grant