Saturday, September 1, 2012

summer's end

His field is bare.
The cows have eaten it to dust
which blows in spirals on the breeze.
Now, he walks them
over the hill
to a long field of wheat stubble
which drapes itself
all the way to the village.

He stands out,
his white shirt
against the pale golds and browns
of summer.

A muted sound
of wooden tongues against bronze,
the cows' bells dong.
They move slowly
mowing the final stalks
in the beating sun.
But, at last, there is evidence of change.

The fig leaves rustle dryly
and the dew in the mornings
lies like diamonds in the brambles.
We shift gear from summer.

The cows move slowly uphill
as the sun, that gaseous ball,
lowers itself to the toothy horizon.
We wave, the cowman and I.