My Father, Clearing Ditchbanks

That scythe synchronized
with the primordial pulse of him;
the movement smooth and sure,
unchanged by rising sun
or noon’s approaching.

It was not a gradual thing
that he built up to.
It began when the scythe
was in his hand; it ended
only when he set it down.

A whispered sound, a swish
unless a drought was on the land
and then a crackle, like wrinkled
paper rattling, but that rhythm
was something you could count on.

2 thoughts on “My Father, Clearing Ditchbanks

  1. Oh, I so love this one. There is nothing like watching and listening as a man scythes – and you so beautifully evoke the experience here, Sarah. It actually enticed me to fall in love with one once. “That rhythm’ if not the man himself was ‘something (I) could count on’! 🙂

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