Paul Murphy
FIELD
Empty , neat bricolage . The lines of cabbage , They are a million greens Flushed also with purple .
The field is bereft No human eye weeds The distant horizon Nor glances up
At encroaching weather . There are one million paths Home , those are driven Into the hillside , into the landscape .
Where no witness thrills to see The risen sun , the distant lough Or the rolling emptied rock Lolling in abeyance .