A field in Romania

POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 13, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A  field in Romania
 

In Spring, in a field stretching across Romania,
a man and a woman stand side by side,
their hands lightly clasped, on their faces
the suggestion of a smile. The man is attentive
to her needs, she is fascinated with his stories.
Their stance displays the goodness of the right
people. They are waiting for the arrival of
a special Word the wind will carry down the Windway.
The land itself awaits this Word. Those of us at home,
or at work, or in a journey, or in the cemetery or a church
await the Word. Most especially, the crowd,
silent and calm, almost motionless, the Witnesses wait,
assembled on a grassy expanse below the knoll
on which the man and the woman search each other faces
for reassurance. People shape this Word silently
with their lips, then bow their heads, knowing it is
only a few deep breaths away . . .

The Word itself is part of the wind which carries it
on the Windway, the part that it leaves behind,
its mysterious trace no one has seen but everyone
feels. Soon they will carry the Word . . . This is now
the quietest place on earth . . . And, with no drama
of any kind, the Word spreads without speech
through the crowd, and continues its country-wide trek.
This event is no more special than watching a cloud
form, disperse, and reform, but by then we are looking
elsewhere. It is no more special than lovers making
promises to each other. sealing each one with a kiss.
Or a man and a woman teaching their youngest daughter
the oldest dance, steadying her legs, counting out
the rhythms with her, until her child’s grace takes over,
and the three of them trace the ancient pattern of footsteps
in the afternoon light. I tell you again,  it is no more
special than watching grains grow, or a river flow,
or the sky darken with rain. What must happen
will happen, and we live our lives in the Meanwhile
between such momentous events —

The birds, there! The birds have arrived! They circle
about us, then swoop down and gently graze
the woman’s unprotected hair. They hover over
the man’s head, or settle briefly on his shoulders.
We all turn our heads upward when they suddenly
climb back into the sky. Our unison gesture is a kind
of prayer. They careen in a wide circle around us,
they glide inside the circle their flight has traced,
then shoot upward again, straight into a cone
of light they fill with caws, and calls, and shrieks.

It is no different from yesterday’s sight, it’ just
much bigger. Tomorrow, fewer birds will do
the same aerial dances, and not everyone will
watch. But that does not concern the rest of us.
We love the repetition of beauty . . . Some people
have begun to leave the field, when in an eerie
silence, riding and twirling around sun-shafts,
the birds come racing down, into our human crowd
once again, swooping upward at the last second.
Some burst through the tree canopy so headlong is
their speed! We are amazed. Cheers and clapping
resound throughout the field. Then we join hands,
and a general dance begins. Awkward at first,
with unsteady steps and botched rhythms,
gradually the better dancers assert control.
and pull the rest of us along. We hug our neighbours
tighter, lovers leading the way, and amid cascades
of laughter and row upon row of kicking feet,
swaying bodies, smiling faces, we become what
we are meant to be – one body becoming one soul.
And long into the night the dance prevails,
in a field in Romania. Overhead, the birds circle
us again and again, calling in voices that
sound almost human . . . .
         

Daniel J. Brick
with thanks to Magdalena for her inspiration!