Fields at dusk

Evening dog walk up the nearest coastal hill. There are long views in all directions. The sea is to my left (north) and the sun behind me, mostly obscured by huge dark clouds, now and again floodlights this easterly view.  I like the pattern of fields: hay has been cut in the topmost while those below are being grazed by a herd of black cattle. The hill top is all brambles and bracken, starting to turn autumnal. Mynydd Dinas looms beyond and the sky above it is still mostly blue but will be dark soon when the sun sets.

Field Day
 
The old farmer, nearing death, asked
To be carried outside and set down
Where he could see a certain field
‘And then I will cry my heart out’, he said.

It troubles me, thinking about that man;
What shape was the field of his crying In Donegal?

I remember a small field in Down, a field
Within fields, shaped like a triangle.
I could have stood there and looked at it
All day long.

And I remember crossing the frontier between
France and Spain at a forbidden point, and seeing
A small triangular field in Spain,
And stopping

Or walking in Ireland down any rutted by-road
To where it hit the high-way, there was always
At this turning point and abutment
A still centre, a V-shape of grass
Untouched by cornering traffic.
Where country lads larked at night.

I think I know what the shape of the field was
That made the old man weep.
W.R.Rodgers

 Many people, during lockdown,  were touched by the newspaper article about an old farmer who lived alone in the Welsh countryside, tended his sheep and ate the same meal every night. A short (21 minutes) documentary film has been made about him, called Heart Valley which I strongly recommend. It's been much acclaimed for its depiction of a life led close to the land by someone who never sought for anything more.

 It's here on BBC iplayer and probably findable elsewhere.