He stands at the field’s edge, astraddle

the scythe handle that rests between his feet.

The metronomic schoof schoof sounds

as sharpening stone scours blade.

 

Back and forth in relentless rhythm,

forehand to backhand along its length,

edge brightening with each stroke

till his shrewd eye is satisfied.

 

Chine flips to sward with a tweak of the snath,

his practiced hands instinctively find grips,

straight into a smooth sweep, right to left,

right to left, shear and shuffle forward.

 

Oaken face creased like shoreline driftwood,

he cuts a steady swathe across the meadow.

When the blade drags, he pauses, puts stone to it

and repeats as the afternoon ebbs.

 

Hour by wearisome hour he continues,

decades drifting by without respite,

following the footsteps of forefathers,

despairing of sons who have already left the land.