Jun 4, 2022
The Scythe
Iron, wood, curve and blade,
it hangs upon my wall,
a cutting tool of ancient make
to make the fields fall.
An instrument for sweeping
its edge across the grain,
a weapon forged for reaping
the living freshly slain.
My elders swung it over fields,
to fodder folk and flock,
the sustenance the soil yields
for stowing winter stock.
Now, it looms above my head,
a reminder on display
that no man earns his daily bread
without his making hay.