PLOUGH FURROWS STUBBLE FIELD
I walk along an autumn stubble field and let my gaze glide
along the plough furrows that give me perspective where they meet
on the far side of the field. The vanishing point is there,
not only in large landscape paintings in well-known galleries
but also here on the outskirts of a suburb that people
leave at daybreak and return to when everning is
drawing near. Most has been done, but some still have enough energy
to take part in a choir practice. It must be a coincidence
that right in front of the field is a row of folding chairs surrounded by
dry twigs. Are threads of fate being spun between choir and corn?
I look at the plough furrows that press together. There is
no vanishing point in the force that rises from the corn.
A song can be sufficient to halt a war before the soldiers die
in vain. I sit down on a chair and pick up a stick from the ground.
It may have belonged to the conductor of the dance of the five senses.
He caused me to gaze in wonderment at this work of creation.
For a picture by Anselm Kiefer:
‘Urd, Werdandi, Skuld (The Norns)’