The Quiet Strangers

Haymaking

Click, click, click, goes the cutter bar,

Far heard its whorls and coughing clacks,

In the Forty-Field out back,

Packed swaths lay as wakes ripp'ling far.

A sea of acr'age dusty green,

Nineteen now left to cut and then,

To go back over it again,

When all is dry and sky is clean.

The scything gear salved thick in oil,

Toils, clicks, and skips a beat,

Now sputters back onto its feet,

Neat as neat; as lean as loyal.

Click, click, click, in the bright-eyed sun,

One small mote on a shifting globe,

Turns the earth from green to gold,

Bold contrasts made yet straight they run.

And at the wheel keen note is made,

Of shade from the tree line inching out,

Which tempts the wit with dithered doubt,

And sprouts urgent thoughts soon conveyed.

The gears shift up, the engine moans,

Home hangs desired in the mind,

The acres disappear behind,

"Grind on, grind on," says clicking tones.

Click, click, click, though half a beat fast.

Last field to go, a mellowed glow,

Now orange, now red, begins to grow,

The dusk creeps forward shrewd and slow.

A wide turn at the west end gate,

Eight passes more are left to make,

On comes the dusk, night in its wake,

The cutter gripes with full complaint.

The final strand is hard to sight:

Lights are dim and lamps need changed,

(For many nights this rig has ranged)-

A calm comes with the scythe's last bite.

Now day is gone and light is past,

All grass lays cut and in the dark,

A scent of hay, a lonely bark,

Marks Forty-Field as cut, at last.