Combines at night
with their lights
working beneath a
harvest moon.
Bright spell.
Dusty, musty new-mown smells
of harvest.
Cold thick
haze
born of warmer days
lays
over the lower fields.
I feel.
Surreal.
"...drama, intrigue, and asks some
really interesting questions."
"It will surprise, titillate and
fascinate you."
"..kidnaps the reader and
compels them to read more.”
"A story of
intrigue, love, and lust"
Eileen Schuh, Author
FIREWALLS
FATAL ERROR
Schrödinger's Cat
THE TRAZ
Web site: http://www.eileenschuh.com
Blog: http://eileenschuh.blogspot.com
3 comments:
I posted a comment but Google did not let me post it. It was a very pleasant comment, too.
This is a hauntingly beautiful poem recognizable only to someone who has lived and breathed on a small family farm. When I was 11 years old, I sat on a slippery small metal seat high above a swather, a fearsome machine with blades and machines that cut the barley and oats into bundles and spit them out the other end. Only later did my father buy a second hand combine, and the men were able to run that as it was easier! We children also stooked, or put the bundles into tentlike structures called stooks. I remember the smell of the hay. It was hard work, and we didn't often work at night. My father drove the tractor. Takes me back, though, to my childhood on a small family farm in the 1950s.
Oh, yes. Thanks for sharing the memories, Kenna
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