Wafts of warm scented air
invade the senses with mowed
hay and honeysuckle;
Prickles of aroma drifting
in and out, as wave upon wave
tickles memories of making
hay in years gone by;
With bottles of cold tea and lemonade,
Boxty and corn cakes , honey
buns and buttered bread still
fragrant from fresh baking;
The indeterminable mosquito,
playing havoc and hide and seek
with the fleshy parts exposed;
Fields of forked hay mounded
awaiting the giants to descend and
gather and the slow trudge back
to the barns to stack..
Hundreds of bails, into imitation
houses stretching skywards until
with muscles aching and fatigue
overwhelming we go home;
Laughter mingles with exhaustion
and at the table awaits a feast for
the triumphant warriors; From oldest
to youngest seated at the table, a profound
silence is filled with the words
"For what we are about to receive"
And with the tired words uttered, we remain
in silence till the last scrap has been eaten
or the youngest hay maker falls
fast asleep.......
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