, Hand-Haying Poem by Adeline Foster
, Hand-Haying
, Hand-Haying
The rhythm of the scythe plume
In the summer heat.
The step-by, step-by cadence
Of the old man's steady feet.
The zip-saw of the whet-stone
Against the metal blade.
The wizened hands like leather
That never knew the shade.
And I am just a child again
On a tumbled stoop;
Watching ancient haying,
Marveling at the crop
Of tumbled swathes of timothy
Symmetrically alive,
Falling layer on even layer
To the mercy of the scythe.
Beautiful. I am sitting here listening to the beautiful music of Kate Wolf, her voice rings like the wonder and magic of long and wonderful memories, and so does this poem. I bailed hay the modern way (1970's!) , but still this poem brings back such great memories; thanks for writing it so well Adeline. May those yesterdays never leave us.
Rhythm of scythe plume is very plume.I loved the phrase tumbled swathes of timothy.Very poignant write i must say and very scintillating.
I tried to comment on this before; guess it did'nt make it- such sweet memories of bygone days-I love your brevity with words-great write-a 10 Joe
......a well composed write..............lovely and wonderful poem
The mind is a Palace! ! And the memories to visit such treasures as is your memory immortalized in this poem.
What a superb tribute. My father was raised on a farm using a team of horses to pull the rake, harow, plow and etc. He told me stories of the old ways of hard hand labor... and how he missed it. It was 20 years ago today that he passed-on, so it is perfect for me to read at this time; my memories smile, for that thank you sincerely. You write wonderfully.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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12/6/2025 8:59:56 PM # 1.0.0
So true to life write, I was brought up out in the country, I remember my dad using a scythe, also being told the dangers of it, I was always amazed at what it could achieve.