In the Wheat and Barley
Feb. 11th, 2024 08:37 pm
"Wheatfield with Cypresses", Vv Gogh, 1889
I remember being young and making "little places" in the grain fields of a nearby farm. After neatly pressing down the stalks and making a squiggly pathway to it, it became a place to imagine. It felt grand and safe. There, I could talk to myself, dream of girls that I might someday know, watch the wind move as waves across grain-tops or even simply let the sun hit my face. It smelled good, was earthy and peaceful -- it was right.
* * *
If your hands were delicate then I would certainly miss the earth in your skin
They were this, one hundred years ago and at least a few hundred before that- a day and many more when the sun and soil turned your skin into butterscotch and where paint on fingers, simply hid what was better than a covert of any color
* * *
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly:
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain:
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley
- From: "The Rigs o Barley", Robert Burns, 1783
no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 09:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 01:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 03:04 pm (UTC)Yep. That they are. :)
no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-02-12 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-02-22 07:01 am (UTC)