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Balletic in their rhythmic swing
the scythes flash in the sun,
each blade honed to a razor edge
before the work’s begun.

The bended backs, the brawny arms,
each pliant elbow joint,
precisely ends the scythe’s wide arc –
controls its crippling point.

Like automata, hour by hour,
as pendulums they move
steps forward, ever forward,
their stamina to prove.

And as they steadily advance
the frightened rabbits run,
imperilled by the waiting dogs –
the farmer’s sporting gun.

Then comes the making of the stooks,
the corn then left to dry,
a time of much anxiety
lest rain clouds mar the sky.

Spread now it lies beneath the flails
upon the threshing floor,
whence rise in clouds a myriad motes
to penetrate each pore.

Next stop, the mill where all day long
the groaning cogs complain
while turning stones to crush to flour
the constant flow of grain.

With Festival thank offerings
at altars sheaves will stand,
a token gift acknowledging
God’s blessing on the land.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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