(for my fellow playmate of those days
my cousin Mary Francis Forde)
The cut corn
bound by twine or súgán.
into sheaves into stooks into stacks
stacks and stacks reeks and reeks of it
hay into haggard
and that was it
'cored' as they said.
And yes that was uncle's and dad's work
but a harvest indeed for us kids.
We took it from there
fodder yes but for us play.
Jumping from the far away top
falling through air
lots and lots of air
into more hay
hours and hours of horseplay
bungee jumping without the rope.
A mountain of hay to leap from
a mountain of hay to land in.
Shouting: 'Stooks...shocks & ricks! '
New sounds we were only after learning.
Or places names that one could taste on the tongue:
'Killingly...Killingly...KILLINGLY! '
I still forever falling through the air
of that day....that free fall through the years
landing in today
the 30th day of my 60th year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem