Haymaking in Hampshire
In Hampshire fields beneath the summer sky,
An old man sits, his gaze both far and nigh.
On an old straw cutter, time does not fly,
Drawn by two horses, under the sun’s eye.
They pass the day, a dance of old and new,
Tilling the fields, as generations drew.
The wheat bows down, a golden, swaying sea,
Yielding to time, to man, to horse, to thee.
The rhythm of life, a cycle spun of hay,
Marking the time in an age-old ballet.
With each cut made, a story is unfurled,
A tale of man and nature, intertwined, swirled.
The sun beats down on Hampshire’s verdant land,
Guiding the horses with a gentle hand.
The old man smiles, his heart in every sheave,
In every grain, a belief to conceive.
For in this dance of harvest, growth, and toil,
Lies the bond between man and his soil.
A legacy of haymaking, so dear,
In Hampshire fields, year after passing year.
As dusk descends, and stars begin to peek,
The old man rests, content, with cheeks sun-streaked.
For in his day of work, he finds his peace,
In the timeless art of hay, his soul’s release.
Scruffy Dog Ear Rambles 
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