New Grain Poem by Matt Mooney

Bend down and gather up neat swathes of corn,
Follow on the man with the scythe in the morn;
Binding every sheaf tight with a band of its own
And remembering the spring when it was sown:
Seed, as a blessing shook, on fresh fertilised soil;
Before our eyes a green field of hope in a while.
Haymaking as the corn ripened in summertime,
Now it's ripe and ready to be mown in its prime.
In the cornfield that would shimmer and shiver;
In each sheaf the ears are now bound together.
But soon the thresher's here with its rise and fall;
Farmers from around know it's a call to them all.
With their pikes held aloft having plenty of craic;
That strong man hoists a bag of oats on his back
And carries it up the stairs to the loft in the barn
As he looks forward to tea and swopping a yarn;
There the man of the house by a bagful he lingers
And he lets the new grain run through his fingers.