~Esther Mitchell, 1987~
A cobbled path,
Laid of stones once thrown,
Crosses a barren field,
Where no love can ever be grown.
A silent voice,
Weeps ‘midst the trees,
And the tale it tells,
Is of much-neglected need.
In the distance,
Sound to the drums,
Of armies on the move,
A war, nearer, comes.
No solace bring those marching feet,
The musk of armor and steel,
For where their heavy footsteps tread,
Will nothing remain to be healed.
Bravery has fled this field,
And cowardice claims victory,
For hate and scorn have ambushed, here,
The hopes of innocence and charity.
Yet, with a breath of honesty,
A rallying cry of simple love,
Green could these fields be again,
And a blue sky, filled with doves.
Poet’s Note: I wrote this poem years ago, scribbled in the back of a notebook as I sat looking out the window of a small B & B somewhere near Inverness. To this day, I don’t know why, and I can’t explain the images the field beyond my window evoked, or why they sometimes revisit me with such clarity, even all these years later. I was all of eight years old, at the time, and yet, the words I wrote didn’t sound like any I would normally use at the time… *shrugs* It’s a mystery I only have a few small answers to, and as I’ve never been back to that spot (in truth, I’ve no idea if I could find the place again if I tried), I can’t say more on it.