This was the breaking field. Wrist-breaker, back-breaker, heart-breaker, circuit-breaker. One strainer too many, one too many ‘boulders larger than one man can handle’, but you handled them anyway. This is the haunted field, and the wide-shouldered hard-edged ghost of Bull McCabe patrols its pale in the midnight light of this January Wolf Moon.
Do we require too much of a field, or does it require too much of us? I was not equal to that field – or is it that it was not equal to me? How do you face such a field, with all its hard history? How do you not turn to stone, in your turn? Do I fail the land by not giving it enough, or does this way of giving to the land fail me? Does this field require my blood? – I am not ready to give it. Can you take blood from a stone? I take from this field more questions than answers, each question a stone, each stone my answer. This field, this enigma, this field riddles us … perplexed, we are perforated by it.
This is the field where the dreams were buried. Now those dreams bubble up and flow out of that field, down along the ditch you dug by hand, picking up pace until, released, they run onto the open headland and spill out into the sea.