I stumbled on this lovely poem by Bernadette Gallagher this morning and had to share it.
Haymaking
Who is it beckons me to try
My hand and body with a scythe
Is it someone that I know or is it
Someone beyond, that now
Lifts whetstone to the steel?
My memory of seeing men cut grass
While women and children rake and turn
Until the hay is dry then build a stack
Fork up the hay to the one on top
Who walks around making even underfoot.
And then a cover thrown over
Held down by heavy stones
To keep the hay
For hungry cows
When morning and nights are cold
Farmers now admit
That was the way
Of yesterday, today machines cut
And lift and into silage pits
The grass that once turned into hay.
With my scythe I carry on
Cutting a small meadow
That once was lawn.
This year was my first and too late
For making hay.
The grass I cut will lie
In mini stacks, not fully dry
But dry enough to keep
Small wild things warm through winter
And into Spring.
Next year I will be prepared
Will clean down the blade
Tighten bolts, peen and sharpen
Remove the burr
And put aside my pen.
(c)Bernadette Gallagher
