Field     In the field, where the dry leaves lie near the grazing cow, I watched a man pick flowers for the grave of a woman he had loved. But memory served him unwell, and he put the flowers on the wrong grave. He dug his foot into earth, picking up the scent of bones, wrong bones, wrong love, but it couldn't matter, for he lost person not love. In the middle of the night, when the field falls into a stupor of frail light, the man weeps in a patch of dandelion. Fall proud to the earth, go below, where the rooted faces sleep and the lame dogs prowl. Dig your home and warrant your rest, lay your body in the deepest field, where the old walk and remember, a dozen faces strung like a rosary, counted with the sunken hand.

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This work is copyrighted by Shelagh Power Chopra.