Thursday, September 15, 2011


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


Magyar said...

The day ('the day,' can be a metaphor for 'all things') has ended, the plows have gone to rust; gee and haw become the echoes in the memory.

As always, John. _m

Dave Serjeant said...

This is fantastic, John. I really enjoyed it.