What is it that brings rocks to surface of a field? The farmer picks these stones, hauls them to the edge and piles them. He builds a long wall, a cairn, a monument to nothing but his hard work.
Surely there must be an end to it. An end to the back breaking labour, but every season the man finds these stones in the place where crop is want to grow. Bend,stoop, pick, pile.
Is it the the sun? The frost? Does the disc of the silver moon pull them from the earth?
There must come a time when the field has turned all of its stones, when nothing is left but the soft loam. Will some inheritor of that field look upon this pile of stone and appreciate the hardship of the man that came before?
I do.
1 comment:
beautiful photograph.
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