I must be in a poetic mood lately, because a countryside walk reminded me of this poem by James Cochran:
“Make hay while the sun shines” they say,
and we do, circling the field while swallows
dive and swoop to feast on insects we kick up,
inhaling the mingled sweetness of diesel fuel
and honeysuckle. We cut, rake, and bale
till the sun goes down and the dew settles on the fields,
then start again next morning once the dew burns off,
almost finishing as dark clouds build on the horizon
and fat drops of rain cut the dust on the Baler.
That’s the part no one says…
Make hay while the sun shines,
but stop when it starts to rain.
Full confession: I only remembered the first bit, then looked up the rest. It is very evocative.
Is there anything more summer-like than the smell of cut grass? Sadly it cannot be conveyed to the page.
In older times, haymaking was done by hand and was backbreaking work. Everyone pitched in from dawn to dusk. Hay has to be brought in quickly, before the weather turns. But it has to be dry enough to stack or bale—it’s a tricky business.
Nowadays machines do the heavy lifting. They suck up the hay, roll it up, and spit out a bale.
It is mesmerising to watch.
Around here, the farmers who drive the harvesters are hired by neighbours as well, so they also work at night. It is fascinating watching them going up and down the field with their headlights on. This year the weather cooperated, so all is well.
All photos by LM
Letters from Athens 