There are fields beyond the trees, fertile fields never turned or sewn, ploughed or pillaged,
lands his course never crossed. If he had hindsight would he still till the same lands,
plant the same roots, seek substance in the same sunlight, find a farmer’s favour
with the familiar falling rain? If he had hindsight would he still seek
solace in the same fire that favoured him in winter,
in those fantastical flames that nourished him
revived him, that thawed his sorrow,
caressed him to comfort?
There is music in other rooms
alive on other keys and strings he never played,
he never knew, he never cared for or considered. If he had hindsight
would he still sing the same song, words that were whispered to him, music
that made him, moulded him, find reason in the same rhythm, character in the same chorus?
If he had hindsight what use could it be, what peace could it bring him, what would it
make of him, how would it change who he was, who he loved and all he has
still yet to be? There are fields beyond the trees, fertile fields
never turned or taken, their grass has other offerings,
their leaves all sway to other sounds,
their fortunes spark other interests,
there is music in other rooms, alive on keys
and strings, tunes of other tenors, sounds from other singers,
they are not his sounds, just as they are not his fields, they have not made him,
will not tempt him, they can never change him; hindsight is to hopeless as happiness is to hopeful.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken just outside of Lisbon, Portugal.