Poem: Lamas Boys

Lammas Boys

The days are growing hot and the Lammas Boys are out. 

The wind in the fields makes the wheat curtsey, 

makes the wheat bow --

the tassels waving like a Morris dancer's scarf.

The Lammas Boys are with their shearing hooks among the rows.

Grain falls and the ground is shorn,

Dusty wheat and barley fields like a three-day beard.

Close-cropped hair is an asset when it's hot.

In ones and threes, the Lammas Boys are back.

Dust on their boots.  Dust in their cuffs.

Dust in the creases of the not-yet folds of age 

along their brows and the corners of their eyes. 

First fruits, first grains.  The Lammas Boys are out.

Gathering 'round the table, gathering 'round the fire.

Eyes blue like the sky with a burning sun.

Eyes green like the memory of spring.

Eyes brown like a furrow. 

The last sheaves will be harvested tomorrow.