Poetry in the Landscape

Poetry in the Landscape. I In the fields. A sunny day at the end of winter. A wonderful moment to reflect and to look forward: and to walk out onto the local lands, which I’ve known now for seven years. These are not well-known tourist spots: these are the local lands, chiefly dedicated to farmers: for local people who keep bees; grow potatoes; keep cattle; occasional horses; and sometimes have these little huts in the middle of the countryside where they can spend a few nights or even longer. Meanwhile the busy road is there in the distance; and you can see the garage; and the trailer repair station. The fires are from the Azerbaijanis, who are preparing the land for the coming year, there on the horizon: sending their own trail into the atmosphere. And the sun shines on this tundra-like expanse, between us and them: where there are scattered stones. Goodness knows how they got there. Remnants of old field boundaries perhaps.And there’s a more obvious field boundary: a bank of stones; and you can also see hedges, delimiting fields, very ancient: and the occasional large stone which has to have been brought down from the mountains by someone at some point to make a serious statement about the land: walling it in, to protect it from someone else.The mountains appear beautiful in the distance: looking that way you can see the Azerbaijani villages; and again, that wonderful stone that must have been there ten thousand years at least, if not longer. The oldest human beings on the planet came from only less than fifty kilometers away from here; the cattle have been grazing here for perhaps as long: they look at you with that suggestion that they really have been here a long time and you are not here for very long.And these tracks are made by jeeps and farmers of the present age, who are cultivating their potatoes; and going by jeep or battered Lada car to do their job on the fields; to scratch some living from the earth; alongside their other occupations.Dry husks of maize...and a neglected field, where any number of shrubs have grown up: barbed-wire still vainly trying to protect the space; and the lush greenness is not far away. The ground is neither too moist not too dry: it’s perfect in its February greenness.Waiting for the sun to give it a deeper shade of green and bring it into its full meaning. Which is the summer, I think: and then, it will be full of wildflowers.We see the untenanted fields and the ancient barriers along the side – in the distance, moderately-sized hills – leading down, as I think you can guess, to a river valley. The Matchavera river runs down there. It’s a Russian name, I’ve been told – and it runs down from Dmanisi. In winter it’s quite lively; in late winter it seems quite placid. And it’s constantly changing its bed.