the far field

on my rides out west of the city i pass big old farms beautifully placed at the top of hills. they command views that are breathtaking across the peterborough drumlin field and beyond.

i have always loved fields. huge swaths of colour. an unimaginable multiplicity of plants all growing side-by-side.

i slow down and look at them. i let them inside me.

there's something about the expanse that allows for a feeling of openness. of possibilities.

even though i know it is a finite space. the finite reveals infinity.


i learned not to fear infinity,
the far field, the windy cliffs of forever,
the dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,
the wheel turning away from itself,
the sprawl of the wave,
the on-coming water.

the river turns on itself,
the tree retreats into its own shadow.
i feel a weightless change, a moving forward
as of water quickening before a narrowing channel
when banks converge, and the wide river whitens;
or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent
and the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, --
at first a swift rippling between rocks,
then a long running over flat stones
before descending to the alluvial plane,
to the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees.
the slightly trembling water
dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays;
and the crabs bask near the edge,
the weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, --
i have come to a still, but not a deep center,
a point outside the glittering current;
my eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
at the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
my mind moves in more than one place,
in a country half-land, half-water.

i am renewed by death, thought of my death,
the dry scent of a dying garden in september,
the wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
what i love is near at hand,
always, in earth and air.

the lost self changes,
turning toward the sea,
a sea-shape turning around, --
an old man with his feet before the fire,
in robes of green, in garments of adieu.
a man faced with his own immensity
wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.
the murmur of the absolute, the why
of being born falls on his naked ears.
his spirit moves like monumental wind
that gentles on a sunny blue plateau.
he is the end of things, the final man.

all finite things reveal infinitude:
the mountain with its singular bright shade
like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
the after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
a scent beloved of bees;
silence of water above a sunken tree :
the pure serene of memory in one man, --
a ripple widening from a single stone
winding around the waters of the world.

theodore rothke