A Man in a Distant Field. Theresa Kishkan

      Rose murmured that her father’s pigs were too fierce to talk to, always wanting to root around and find more to eat, but maybe these ones never had to work for their food.

      “These pigs were almost courtly, Rose, the way they waited for her, one of them sniffing her wrists. When I said I was thirsty and might she have a glass of water, she took me to her pump and drew off a jug of the most beautiful water and poured some into a tin cup. I have never tasted any like it. We talked and there was sun and the sound of her pigs eating their fill of dinner. When at last I thought to check my watch, Rose, the old pocket watch I have here, I saw I would be pressed to be back at the train on time. The woman suggested I might not want to leave, that there was work for a man like me on her farm, and for a moment I was tempted to stay. It was like a spell had been cast over me for that moment, Rose. It was all I could do to say my farewells and run along that country road to the town where the train was building up steam for its leave-taking. I have occasionally wondered what my life would be like if I’d stayed. She struck me as something of a muse, that woman, a lass to inspire a man to do something fine, there with her pigs and her fields. But I never found out what I might have done. That’s it, Rose, my little tale, and in telling it, I see that it still mystifies me now as it did then. Let’s look at the poem again and see what you can make of these lines.”