I Just Recently Saw the Field Where I Died
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I Just Recently Saw the Field Where I Died
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Boot prints tangle in the whispering wheat.
Found a black coin sleeping in the dirt,
Sky like a shoebox photo, yellowed and blurred.
Camera stutters—world double-exposed,
A latch in my ribs lifts, clicks, and holds.
I’m not a ghost—I’m twice alive,
I came to take back what I left behind.
The quiet sets a chair, pours water wide;
I step through the silence like an open sign.
I just recently saw the Field Where I Died,
and the wind spelled out my name in dust.
I walked away with my shadow untied,
heart like a war drum—boom, boom, trust.
Not here to haunt—here to reclaim;
I took my breath back, I took my name.
Monoliths leaning like old cathedrals,
Grass hisses secrets in rattles and needles.
Somewhere a friend called my name years away,
Measuring stick in a thunderless day.
The dog of the field gave a tired little sigh—
Even the stones seemed to nod, “All right.”
I’m not a wound; I’m the healed black line,
Stitched by the sun and a patient time.
The past unlatches, swings open wide;
I step through the doorway I once denied.
A coin. A torn photo.
A broken watch. A matchbook.
A note with a shaky scrawl.
I leave them on the gate for the next to find—
I was buried here once… I’m not buried at all.
I just recently saw the Field Where I Died,
and the wind spelled out my name in dust.
I walked away with my shadow untied,
heart like a war drum—boom, boom, trust.
Not here to haunt—here to reclaim;
I took my breath back—
I took my name.
Light leaks—yellow, pink, violet—fade,
Rearview towers shrink into a single blade.
I drive with the window down, unafraid,
The latch in my chest still open, still brave.
(Sounds, voices and music made with Suno. Script: Patrick Bernauw.)
Patrick Bernauw is a writer of historical fiction and magical realism. He is living in Flanders, the Dutch speaking part of Belgium. Maybe he'll turn this podcast into a book someday, who knows.
This episode includes AI-generated content.
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