Large Fierce Mammal

Much of the land that, if I may be so bold, we call “our own”, is covered with a mixture of second growth forest interspersed with a smattering of ancient Pine Trees that have escaped undisturbed by the hand of Man. Walking west from the house, the land rises rapidly over a distance of some two hundred meters to a table top flat plateau, then slowly drops again to a small stream before rising gradually until the traveller reaches an abrupt decline completely covered from top to bottom in a cascade of granite boulders to which I have given the name Stonefall.

Seen from the downhill side, Stonefall gives the appearance of an ancient fortification built of now moss covered stones ranging in size from that of a man’s head to twice the size of a medicine ball. Each and every one was put there by the hands of Men who cleared every square foot of the land that is the expanse lying between the house and that hill. Where now a new growth forest stands was once cultivated field and pasture from which a now forgotten Family drew its sole hope of Winter survival. Forgotten, that is, but by the tumbled rocks of Stonefall.

I go there every year at this time, when the joy of the Harvest fills the air, tempered by the tantalizing reminder of Winter’s onset. I go to speak to the Spirits of Stonefall, or more accurately to listen. They always give me their advice, although I can’t say that I always understand them.

Stonefall

By LFM

Along the edge of what was once
A field where crops were sown,
There lies a silent monument
Of blood, and sweat, and stone.

No polished facets bear the names
Of those who put it there,
And trees now stand where fields were tilled
By Men now passed from care.

No stones could they abide, those Men,
The busy plough to still,
So every one they levered out,
And cast it down the hill.

For Love of Clan, of Home and Hearth,
With iron will and thew,
Was done a full day’s labour ere
The Sun could lift the dew.

A hundred years or more it’s been
Since blade turned fertile soil.
The Moss has drawn its blanket o’er
This monument to toil.

Those Men no longer draw a breath,
Each lusty heart is still,
But what was best in every one
Still lives within this hill.