think I need to rewrite some more, but here it is...


It was the summer of all summers
The grass was ripe for harvest
And we all came together in the shining meadow
To cut hay and laugh together

The ancient crooked tree, did it truly hide a treasure?
And were there really monks here all those many years ago?

The horse so strong and proud to do her work
Muscular and sturdy, no dainty little play thing
She pulled the hay sled like it was a mitten
Filled with prickly stems and dried out flowers

Could we catch a glimpse of the monks' long lost carp
In the silent waters of those murky ponds?

The steady swishing of the scythes across the grass
If you need to force it, you got it wrong
Balance your scythe, sharpen the blade
Make a tidy row for the rakes to gather

And did you hear the music from the fiddlers?
Meet the wanderers from far away?

It was the very last of summers
When I learned to dance and learned to hide
The likes of you will never take my hand again
And lead me into the shadows

Where did the spring find its clear cool water?
Will summer find its way to me again?

Poetry by Åsa Andersson
Read 939 times
Written on 2015-08-25 at 09:50

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
This is simply beautiful. When I saw the title I imagined it would be a dark piece about karma. But no, it is a wonderful piece about youth and country life. I can almost hear those fiddles. Very nice indeed :)

you know, i talk for myself but i will use the word we. we whose english isn't the first language, we use sometimes unused words in english but rarely an expression of many that you cannot translate as you would translate each of them

Ivan R
Beautiful, as great words as the scenery was to the poet,
melancholic in some ways, filled with purpose the next turn, this is a poem of wondering, learning, and being good* Wonderful

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is very nice, as is, Asa. In answer to that last question, I hope so, but it's hard for summer to reach all of the way into autumn, where so many of us are waiting for it.

What a wonderful memory of a time and place that, at least where I am, hardly exists anymore except among the Amish, the hay fields disappearing and the great draft horses, Belgians and Percheron, long gone. Certainly summer will come again, but not in the ways that we remember it.