August Haying The boy wiped sweat from his now soaking head As midday August sun blazed down to earth Scorching the clippings left for him to bale. How long had he been at his fork? He had To stop and think on that one for a while. His father'd come to fetch him before dawn, With stars still twinkling in the western sky. They sat across the table in the kitchen, He looking at the breakfast on his plate, His father sipping on his cup of coffee, Not saying much, except the usual talk About the weather, other random things, To simply fill the silence in the room That lingered as they waited for the sun to rise. But that was hours ago. He saw his pa, A man of very little words, walking across The field, two bales suspended from each of Hs massive arms. He never said too much Until the working day was done at night But simply went about his daily chores. This was a man who'd never been away From the small country farm where he grew up. A farm that he'd been given by his dad That had been in the family for years. The boy looked out and saw a dandelion, White haired and being buffeted by breeze, As pieces of its mane detached and flew Away, drifting slowly out of sight. His mind followed a solitary seed, Out over rolling hills to where it set Itself down gently upon newer ground Where it took root and made a solid claim To the earth far beyond where he could see. His father said "Boy, sunlight's fading fast, And there are lots of clippings left to bale." So picking up his fork the boy worked on Until the sun had vanished from the sky.
Reason for writing:
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I've just started writing again and am interested
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Birth sign: Aries
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