HEYDAY

[A long time ago, my country childhood,

but the memory lives forever]

Fringe of hair on the great round hoof
Treading the stubbled hay.
Creak of wood on the great round wheel
Rolling the rickyard way.
Along the lane where the trees arch over,
Smell of sweat and of dry sweet clover.
Dusty sorrel on the rut-scored edge,
Wisps caught up on the broad green hedge.

Fringe of hair on my young damp brow,
Shading my young bright eyes.
Hayseeds stuck in my ears and sandals,
Drowsy buzzing of flies.
Crunch of boots on the lane's rough surface,
Tread behind the wagon with steadfast purpose.
Bounce on the load and never fall!
Here is the rickyard - come down all!

Gone is the hoof with the fringe of hair,
And the hay is baled tight round.
Gone is the wheel creak, gone the boot crunch,
Smothered by the tractor's sound.
Gone is the rutted, hay-wisped byway:
The road past the farm is a six-lane highway.
The fringe on my dry, lined brow is white,
Yet still I see the haytime light.

Huge machines that the young men drive
Swallow up the sunripe hay.
Swathe of the hayfield gone forever,
Gulped by the motorway.
But the cows still munch the hay as they choose to,
Snatch the wisps from the tufts as they used to.
Look in my heart: they are all safe there,
The hoof and the wheel and my young damp hair.
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