The tractors sound their morning trawl,
Skippered like boats for sheave haul in field bay
With ripe grass after sun in meadows gold.
Dromore, Easkey, Templeboy. Seamus
Disembarking wipes sweat from chest,
Linen shirt for washing now.
And sheaves brought in.
The ploughshares to good use,
No Excalibur here but saving product,
Summer field to winter time. The
Movement, gathering and minding.
Every Summer this hymn is sung,
And new each time,
A psalm of joy earth prompted.
True lauds, sheaves in.
By sweat and brawn muscle.
All prompted by summer sun shining
Over Skreen.
My mother's farming blood takes note.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem