Fields of Gold


A rock to caress and satisfy, lie back and rest ‘neath a slowing sun.  Bliss.

Rise not but sit, a light golden field, a sheet of breeze lies upon it.

A whistle and natter from each slow blooming branch.

A walking stick rests beside me, a brilliant gleam from its handle.

Birds pierce the orange sky above me.

A burst of glorious sun through the silhouette.


Alas, many years have passed; a man’s body becomes sore.

Used with age, a gradual torment of incapability. Stay not,

I can hear the call of nature, for as come my time.

As I rise, my thoughts drift away from there. Legs carry as far as they need to.

A silent ray of sun brings a smile to my face and a dead man’s smile is the sweetest of them all.


My walking stick to my side, I fall to my knees, pipe in mouth.

The birds fly by, no notice taken. Alas, my age has worn me.

A dying man’s breath. A lonely man’s breath.

The stories that could have been told to be locked away forever.  And so I lay.

But as my eyelids droop, my body limp and with a smile on my face, my spirit rises to the shining kingdom.


And so as the golden grass engulfs me, I leave my life and body to the only place I would leave it to lie forever. I let my body rest in peace, amongst the perpetual fields of gold.


Conor McGowan