THE LOW FIELD Sitting on this smooth well worn granite rock, Where my father and his father before him sat At the foot of Slieve Gullion Mountain Smoking a Players Number Six. I draw in the air of the freshly turned soil, Tracing the straight lines of the drills in my mind Seeing the fertile auburn earth gently parted Lying open, awaiting the life-giving seed. At the foot of Slieve Gullion is my high field And further down the low road, the low field, >From this rock I see both, bordered by stone ditches And smooth flowing shucks, just as my forefathers did. In the purple heather breeze I hear their words echo, "Plough high down by the holly trees, watch the rocks, Keep the plough board straight, reins tight. Son, a man's known by the line of his drill." Come harvest time the neighbors will gather, The women fresh faced with big heaving bosoms In floral aprons, tied twice round their broad waists, Flattened with boned stays and flannel petticoats. They bring tae, buttermilk and soda farls To men with yellow nicotine beards, who stop to eat, Smoke and talk, as freckled children chase frogs And collect dawking leaves to cure the sting of nettles. When the mist comes down o'er the mountain Weary workers plod home through ditch lined lonans, Up to half doors, removing dirt stained boots. Women tell the weather by the way the fire lights, The men, bone sore, bathe callused feet in warm salted water, Children, tired from play, fall asleep by the fire. Finally the wearied foks retire to feather ticks Where life is made and life departs. In the high field, surrounded by the mist that caps Slieve Gullion The damp evening air seeps into my bones, I head home, past Chambrey's and the Protestant School, Past white washed homes with familiar smells, Fresh oven baked bread, churned butter, Turf scented smoke swells to form a nebulous cone. In the evening solitude, life creeps up through furrowed soil And the bells of Dromintee Chapel ring. -- Sheenagh M. O'Rourke (1995)