The Quiet Field

The Quiet Field

By: Brendan Cadman

A quiet field baring all to see,

no shackles to bind, no roaring sea.

The earth unspoiled, birthing a timeless sprawl,

where she whispers softly, an unrelenting call.

Dancing wildflowers cover unfed grain,

announcing a humble choir and soft refrain.

Their petals dance in the gentle sway,

A fleeting ode to the dying day.

No golden crops, no bursting bloom,

only a grassy carpet toward an impending doom.

Each blade a shade of kelly green,

for a witness to what’s felt unseen.

In the wind they bend but refuse to break,

what scatters becomes the paths we take.

It's hearty scent of earth and sky,

illuminate lost dreams passing by.

Lowering his head the sun dips its golden crown

a white light starts to bath the scape as night bares down. 

Darkness brings with it a fleeting grace,

hiding the scars on nature’s face.

He requires not more than a simple meal,

enough to resuscitate his heart and learn to heal. 

No banquet spread and rewards overflowing,

a resting feeling in the simply knowing.

For in this stillness is where time unfolds,

chapping the hands where desperation holds.

The broken body displaying his canvass of art

hoping one day it mends the fractures in his heart.

For what is wealth if not this peace,

A life content and a soul at ease?

No majesties halls, no diamond bands,

could hold the worth of this great land.

The quiet field, so bare, so grand,

Holds all the world within its hand.

A kingdom vast, serene, profound,

Where souls like seeds take root in ground.