POEM - HAY DAYS

 

 

 

 

Here's something I wrote many years ago about what happens when the zest of spring moves into the languorous heat and humidity of late summer. You can tell what kind of a childhood I had, can't you?

 

HAY DAYS

Those were our hay days
When waving grasses,
Tall enough to shelter childhood games,
Burned dry by Summer sun,
Fell to the rolling flail
And sharp reciprocating teeth.

We would stand within the stubble
With sticks in hand
While nosing dogs moaned bloodlust
And raised up choking clouds
To make the grown-ups with their shotgunsCurse and threaten them with lead.

The heart of furry terror,
A tight-wound spring,
Moves not at all, froze with fear.
How many there? A dozen? More?
Good for the pot in creamy rich stew
Good to chew raw on the kennel floor.

The machine unwinds the blind
And makes the island smaller.
And .. there! See! Two go! Over there!
Here! Can’t you see?
Dammit dog, run you bugger!
Huge explosions everywhere.

One leg thrust beneath the tendon of the other
Is how they’re carried.
Slung on sticks or binder twine.
Heads down, dripping blood
Shiny eyes now dull with dust.
Dogs whimper at the smell and at the thought.