Scout Scar: treasure trove

The Bright Field

The wail of ambulance sirens fades as I turn my back on the town and  climb toward Scout Scar escarpment.   Amidst the rain and December gloom there comes a day of wondrous light and I stand poised on the threshold of another world.  Here is treasure trove,  something of inestimable worth, and now to  make it mine . 

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Walking south, toward Morecambe Bay,  I am dazzled by the sun and find myself surrounded by Welsh Black cattle.  The  docile creature  I almost stumble into  does not  raise her head but continues grazing.  The dog  Bailey drops a stick at my feet and   invites me to play.    Bailey and the Welsh Blacks 
are untroubled by  news of a pre-Christmas surge in  Coronavirus and the peace of the morning comes upon me.

I love the warmth and depth of colour of winter woods,  the amethyst of birch  amidst the canopy.  Dark yew trees cling to the escarpment buttress.   As the morning advances the Howgills  show in sunlit clarity and I love the feathery delicacy of winter trees caught in sunlight against a foil of the fells in deep shadow. I watch the sun break through to illuminate a distant field,   a highlight in the darkness.  And I  give all that I am to this moment. Here is treasure, here is contentment. 

I can't remember when first I  read R S Thomas  The Bright Field but the poem has never had more resonance
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                                                         The Bright Field.

                                                  I have seen the sun break through
                                                  to illuminate a small field                                                
                                                  for a while, and gone my way
                                                   and forgotten it. But that was the
                                                   pearl of great price, the one field that had
                                                   treasure in it. I realise now
                                                   that I must give all that I have
                                                    to possess it. Life is not hurrying
                                                   on to a receding future, nor hankering after
                                                   an imagined past. It is the turning
                                                    aside like Moses to the miracle
                                                    of the lit bush, to a brightness
                                                    that seemed as transitory as your youth
                                                    once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

                                                                                                 R S Thomas