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.