STANDING MID-PHOTO

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Scythes sing through the corn;

the sheaves are bound and stooked (reservation of tiny wigwams).

One old clydesdale snorting, trudges through clouds;

pitchforks hoist and glitter in the sun.

I stand mid-photo holding Jack’s bridle, a townie romantic,

never wanting the day to end  -  but it has ended!

The bothy is empty, horsemen gone, with their secret words, their squeeze-boxes and ballads.

No more, the tinkling bells of harness, or sparks lighting the dawn mornings, as jack stamped the cobbled yard, impatient to be away, to drag a plough and a hundred gulls behind him the day long.

The millstone leans a weary shoulder against the old cottage, the plough, gone to rust, stands red amongst the roses gone to briar.

I return the sepia photograph to its rusty nail on the stable wall…and go!

the earth

rising in great waves

gulls’ screaming