Memories
stacked like haystacks
in long evening
shadows, wait
to be gathered
and placed.

Halleluiahs
from parched throats
resound and echo
across the night air,
ascend one
last time
to the sky's
vast hollow.

Boots crunching
the cropped grass
get closer
with each deliberate
exhausted step.
Hands unclenched,
at last
gradually loosen
their grip
on bailer twine.

A smile widens
on a furrowed
face, releases
tiny beads
of sweat,
reflecting
the pale light
of stars.

After the sweating
and slaking of thirst
an ineffable glory
seems to arrive
then fade
as the evening limps
to its end.

Now around long
harvest tables
the sound of tired words
from wizened men
numerates our reasons
in neat rows.

Move closer
to the muffled
voices.
Someone might mention
the broad smile
and the pale lightfrom innumerable stars.
Someone might
even whisper a rumour
of glory.

By Paul Mason

"When reading my friend Dan's poems I was suddenly encouraged to send in one of my own ( both of us were brought up in Llanfarian) The hay making theme I thought was relevant to Mid Wales and the response to a decline of a certain way of life." - Paul Mason