Farm - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Amid the wheat, amid the soft golden ears, moves the unseen wind. It moves my hair and sea of summer grass all the same. In these moments on the farm there is an eternity in each second, a joy that comes in the free birdsong and a steadiness to my heart and soul. And supporting all this is the humble Earth, that sweet rich brown that brings all this in concert with the sunshine. If I could wish for peace within this human body and all around, I could wish for no more.
The wheels of straw rest on their earthen bed, soaking in sunshine, adding their fragrance to the day that develops as an old photographic film may. Under the sky that is made all the more pretty for the scattered clouds, the white puffs that radiate white light, every colour is made more gay. Perhaps this is the pride of nature, this simple scene of flora and fauna, and the biggest blessing is to witness its beauty.
The field rises in a way that brings a newly departed bed to my thoughts. It is as a duvet that is rumpled in all the right ways, so care free rather than pulled straight. That is the way the grasses are, tufting and waving as the ocean may on some sunny windswept day. I watch the green hues as it deepens and lightens in the sun-rays. The land itself is a steep incline, one that makes one feel the effort of the muscles to climb, yet feel the joy of the effort it takes.
The old hay barn has stables at the front with those old half-doors to allow the horses to see the view of the yard. Once the old iron bolts are opened there is a ladder rising to a loft, the place we store the hay and straw. It is a place of games, of childhood memories as sweet as the aroma of those sun-soaked grasses. It is a place on this farm for the sweetness of solitude and the freedom of playful thoughts, a place to hear the rain on the old tin roof as if it were music from the heavens.
Farm games were jumping from hay bale to hay bale. Farm games were hiding in the barn and jumping out just to see the other kids jump in surprise before the laughter in their eyes spread to their smiles. Farm games were racing from the school bus to the kitchen table because the last one to afternoon tea was a "rotten egg." Farm games were spinning in the yard with arms out wide until the dizziness sent us to embrace mother earth. Farm games were what bonded us, kept us strong as a family, lead us to be the well grounded but fun-loving adults we are today.
The farm grew up out of the pale green hills as if it had always been part of the scenery. The house itself was a beautiful brick, the colours being the hues of the land herself, rustic brown striations on grey rock. Upon the rolling fields grew potatoes, turnips and all the root vegetables we love to roast in the autumn.
The farm was every kid's dream. The house was cozy, warmed by an aga, and the kitchen had the aroma of baking every day of the year. Mama loved to cook, Papa always made a seeded loaf on a Sunday. The hills were a safe place to play, to explore, to create new stories and live their dreams to the full. They were never happier than with muddy boots and the wind tousling their hair. Freedom. Of course there were the chores, but that's how they got to feel important and know they were needed. There was time for work and time for play, a perfect balance.
The lane debouched into a close-bitten field, and out of this empty land the farm rose up with its buildings like a huddle of old, painted vessels floating in still water.
Farms were once full of animals that suffered, used more like digits in a bank balance than creatures with thoughts and feelings. We learnt how intelligent they were, but more than that, we learnt what emotions they were capable of feeling. Intelligence after all, is not knowledge, but creativity; likewise intelligence and complexity are not the same thing. Not being able to figure out a math sum does not mean it's alright to treat the creature as a meat bag. Feelings are feelings, life is life. Our farms now are for crops, for vegetables, and we've learnt how to make wonderful high protein foods so bursting with flavour. It's amazing what we could do when we put our true intelligence to work in the right direction.
The mud lay in uneven patches, scattered over the sloped concrete farmyard. The smell of manure hangs thickly over the more subtle scent of tree blossom. A poorly constructed large gate of wooden planks and chicken wire that seems to flex and bow whenever it is opened or closed bars the bottom of the yard. Slightly further up and to the left there are two stables of rotting wood with a corrugated metal roofs that now house calves, bought at market to fatten up and sell on for their meat; Charolais and Friesians stand quivering on thin legs, braying gently. To the top lie the stables with the donkey and the riding horse. To the right is the pig pen, dear Cutlets, who lives in ignorant bliss of the significance of his name.
Behind the farm the stone mountains stood up against the sky.The farm buildings huddled like little clinging aphids on the mountain skirts, crouched low to the ground as though the wind might blow them into the sea. The little shack, the rattling, rotting barn were grey-bitten with sea salt, beaten by the damp wind until they had taken on the color of the granite hills.
The sweet old farmhouse burrowed into the upward slope of the land so deeply that you could enter either its bottom or middle floor at ground level. It's window trim was delicate and the lights in it's sash were a bubbly amethyst.
From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns and granaries and the pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, wand washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow bushes growing about it.