Haying Time
By Lida M. Bassler
July 20, 2000
Like locusts
Making up a swarm
They gather,
Flying for the farm:
They drift
As if on wafts of air,
They drive,
Arrive from Everywhere.
With wives and husbands,
Daughters,
Sons,
Each summer of the year
They come,
Drawn forward
Near Mid-summer’s day
To gather in the sweet mown hay.
The cattle
Grazing in a field
Eye dolefully
Its gladsome yield
Of fragrant and delicious grasses
Each time the team
Of Belgians passes.
Aromas lift upon the breeze
As bovine noses snort and wheeze,
To capture cautiously the scent
Of all the farmer’s work… well spent.
Indeed, it is
A bumper crop,
Which seems to grow
And not to stop;
To utilize all nature’s power,
Until arrested by
The mower.
Meanwhile,
The brothers and their wives
Have interrupted other lives
To take the lure of bygone ways
And wander home to tend the hay;
To shuttle wagon
After wagon
With faithful horses,
Traces draggin’,
From well shorn field
To spacious barn,
With open doors that hollow yawn,
To swallow up great feasts for winter -
A hundred-thousand
Moo-cow dinners.
Dutiful
Daughters
And their mates
Turn in at last between the gates,
The little ones are all a-gleam…
Mount Thom!
Al last!
Their
Summer’s dream.
While
Women cook
And troll the garden,
Their men the hay
Determined warden,
And all the
Younger
Generation
Explore the farm
With veneration.
Into the well house
Each young nipper
Drinks,
‘Til sodden,
From the dipper.
Fresh made bread
And cakes and cookies
Greet seasoned workers,
Younger rookies,
Who plod
Examining new places
With tummies full,
With jam-smeared faces.
Their sticky-pawed
Investigations
Paint stripes
On elders’ working stations,
Such as the stove
And kitchen table…
Less troublesome
Around
The stable.
The men,
Like heroes born of old,
Launch into harvest,
Strong and bold.
They tell tall tales,
Guffaw at jokes,
Much more alive
Than other folks.
They haul upon the horses’ reins,
Deep voices
Growling out the names,
Fork up the hay atop the cart,
Lurch onward for another start,
‘Til mounded full,
They halt their yarns,
And turn their heads toward the barn…
To lift the load
Into the mow,
Eyed docile-like by pig and cow.
Then back they trail
Across the road
To muscle up
Another load.
Slowly,
Slowly,
Day by day,
The fields are stripped
Of grain and hay:
Too soon
The harvest will be in…
And then the partings
Must begin.
Meanwhile,
Goes on the celebration,
Old culture cloaks
New
Generation.
Each evening brings
The supper spread:
Cards,
Talk and music,
Then to bed.
The fiddle squawks
Its well-loved tunes
Played under
Many, many moons.
Familiar sounds
The spirits flood,
Awakening memories
In the blood.
Hugs and kisses all around,
Knees are slapped
With solid sound:
Laughter and happiness
Richly reign,
And tomorrow will see it
Played o’er again.
Infused with a sense
Of true belonging,
They’ll sleep where their ancestors did
‘Til dawning
Signals the rise of another day,
Whose much lesser theme
Is
The harvest of hay.