Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

A beautiful sojourn in the Southern Highlands of NSW  (cf ) earlier in the week butts up against the mundane duties of life back at work.  It is not as extreme as it seems at times.  Yet, the challenge to remain centred and integrated in the face of many demands is an experience many of us recognise.



Soft Rain Falls Over Fields and Hills

 Soft rain falls over fields and hills,

like a blanket.

Stitch by stitch

a gentle wet

covers us

In its bounty.

A peace descends,

and we rest

in the beautiful mounts of Mittagong.

United in one purpose,

we tell of each of our work.

Common cultural themes

rising in our reports

like a similar distillation

of a settled still.

Minds, ears and voices

come together,

to shape,

the task,

that moves us

towards the horizon

that we must go.

And go we do,

when our time is done.

But oh!

Those luscious green hills.

The docile cattle

grazing about their feeding,

disturbed so little

by our presence around them.

Now we have returned.

Back at the fray.

Calendar and diary,

they rule the day!

This event!

That appointment!

This person, that group!

Friend, family or fool.

All make their claim,

as we feel

set upon,

fed off,

like a carcass to the jackals.


still breathing,

we feel the bites.

Or, we are spun,

as on a wild windmill.

Bits of us flung off

at various intervals,

yet still attached,

leaving us

as a tangled, matted mess.

This feeling then,

Is one of being scattered,


If only the rhythmic axle

and the gravitational force

of the spinning

would hold us connected

to that one centre.


as we dwell

upon that windmill,

we think again,

of fields and hills

on the mounts of Mittagong,

where soft rain falls

as balm on our broken pain,

and feeding cattle

remind us

of nature’s rhythm,

of life and growth,

and of living again.


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