Summer days in 1960
by Maureen Ford
My thoughts go back to the meadow crew
And cut long grass 'neath morning dew,
In swarths so neat and flat it fades
On the shorn close-cropped grassy blades.
As the warming sun and blustery breeze
Dry the moist limp rows on one side,
With two-grain fork we turn and ease
And fold each drying layer, mowed wide.
We labor in tandem from headland to end,
Men moving faster than the children.
We chat and joke as we work the land,
Develop sore welts on our soft hands.
Hay teased and gathered, trammed and trussed
We sneeze as we breathe the seeds and the dust,
The smell of new hay, like fresh-baked bread
Is wholesome and infiltrates the head.
The sound of the horse chomping and wheezing,
The peace and tranquility of the day all seizeing.
Sweet distant bird-song and cawing crows
Distract our thoughts from weary bones.
We search the sky for threatened rain
While we drink sweet tea and spot the train,
Which tells us it's four in the afternoon
As it puffs and shuffles along the distant line.
Hungry and tired we finish, head home,
Pick wild berries from briers in the lane,
Or gather fresh mushrooms, birthed since morn,
Stringing them on long stems of fern.
After thankful prayer our vibrant chatter
Fills the kitchen as we pass the platter
Of crusty warm bread, bacon and mustard
Stewed rhubarb over warm custard.