By Barsolus Burn Poem by jim hogg

Shades of evening sunshine
lay on the harvest yield,
and laughter light and free,
floated o'er the golden field.

A dozen men and women
made sheaves and stooks by hand,
beneath an August skyline when
our families worked the land.

In nineteen fifty nine,
I saw through an open gate,
a scene spread there before me
like an image on a plate;

a work of art from another age,
all framed by wooden posts;
a world so lost, those well known folk,
seem flimsier than ghosts.

Much too young to comprehend
the harmony of things
I can't recall a single thought
beyond a sense of awe

like that induced by solemn blend
of river, trees and hills,
or giant flakes of falling snow
freed by some greater law,

the placid face in full accord
with the balance found within,
or the painting, or the word,
that strikes some unknown chord

Shades of evening sunshine
lay on the harvest yield,
and laughter light and free,
floated o'er the golden field.

A dozen men and women
made sheaves and stooks by hand,
beneath an August skyline when
our folks still worked the land.

12 06 07