January 05 2010

Text By Greg Fallis

The last time I walked this path a lark sang an extravagant hosanna to the afternoon sun. The fields were newly-turned, the soil dark and rich as Jamaican coffee, ready to burst with seedlings. I rested unnecessarily beneath the pagan trees, still not quite full in leaf, and listened to the lark. Behind the electrified fence a lone cow watched me with imperturbable, bovine patience.

Now the cow is gone. The seedlings grew to adult plants and were harvested. The soil has become strangely grey. The leaves have all fallen and the trees have turned to old bone. The lark has been displaced by a solitary crow, who flew lazily away as I approached. There was no hosanna, and I didn't pause beneath the tree.

Winter is here, and the countryside is waiting, imperturbable as a lone incurious cow, for something to change.