Poem – When the Field Asks Nothing

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When the Field Asks Nothing

One day,
in the small hour between the blackbird’s call
and the sun’s slow unbuttoning of the mist,
I walked to the edge of the field—
where sorrow had been keeping its quiet tent
just beneath the sedge.

There, the wind did not ask
if I was brave,
nor did the nettle
apologise for its sting.

A hare startled from the tall grass
as if to say:
run if you must—
but know the stillness
was here all along.

I sat.
Not in triumph. Not in grief.
Just the way a stone sits
in the river’s wide patience.

The ache in my chest
was not a curse
but weather.

And the breath?
It softened the belly,
like rain softens old clay
until it becomes a vessel again.

A crow circled, watching,
and the sky,
spacious as mercy,
held it all.

That was the day I stopped demanding
that difficulty leave.
Instead, I said:
You may sit here, too,
if you can be quiet.

And it did.
And we watched the light
walk slowly over the hills.

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