Monthly Poem

MISSING AT THE HARVEST FESTIVAL

 

 

At our Harvest Festival with displays of summer's toil

There is one item missing, a fruit of England's soil,

It's call in farming parlance, 'A Little Bale of Old Land Hay'

And, like wine connoisseurs, the scent gives the best vintage of the day.

 

It has a warm, sweet fragrance, not like acrid new mown grass,

The subtle sweet aroma begins in summers past,

For the field that it comes from is home to myriad plants

Ragged Robin, Cranesbill, Saxifrage, Meadowsweet, which all enchant.

 

The hay is cut, the meadow grazed, the soil kept low fertility

Floral biodiversity with flowers of great virility,

Among the grasses there's the source of fragrances so divine

The alchemy of sweetest scents makes summer so sublime.

 

The crop creates a habitat for wildlife so diverse

The bees suck nectar on clover flowers, with each other they converse,

There are swarms of hoverflies and moths which lay eggs among the leaves

And swallows skim and skylarks sing from daybreak until eve.

 

The kestrel watches mice and voles down in the vegetation

Hares, long ears protruding, run off, no hesitation,

This and much more we find distilled into those bales

As memories of summer days come back as the scent's inhaled.

 

 

Paul Scrivener