Thanks to Irish Farmers Journal for publishing my poem 'Haymaking'.
My poem ‘Haymaking’ describes my first year of scything in 2020. This year, 2021, I did manage to save the hay and build a stack. Our neighbouring farmers used it to feed young calves.
Growing up by the sea in Donegal my father used a scythe to cut the hay. There were no tractors or horses, all the work was done by hand. It feels good to continue the skill of scything even if our livelihood does not depend on it.
I learned how to use a scythe from Chris Hayes at the Irish Seed Savers Association in Scariff, County Clare late September 2020. The sun shone on our scything group of five women and three men. We travelled from Monaghan, Galway, Clare, Kerry, Cork, and our tutor from Wexford.
Chris
got down to work promptly. Covid rules
applied so we kept our distance from one another. He explained all about the history of
scything and the various types of scythes in use across the world.
Chris
had Austrian scythes for sale and a few of us bought our first and for some a
second or third scythe. We learned how
to measure and ensure a good fit so I bought a Number 2 along with two
whetstones and a holder. I also came
away with the invaluable Learn to Scythe by Steve Tomlin.
Some of
the participants came with one or more scythes so there was a mixture of
ability in the group. Once we had
assembled our scythes and had received the necessary instructions we headed for
a slanting meadow. We spent a few hours
practising our scything and laid low some grass.
We had
brought a packed lunch with us as the café was
closed due to Covid. I had a beautiful
journey home through East Clare, driving for miles without seeing a house or
human.
I love my wooden Austrian scythe; it is light and handles so well. My husband gave me one of his belts which is great for hanging my whetstone holder.
My appetite has been
whetted, now I need to learn how to peen.
Haymaking
Who is it beckons me to
try
My hand and body with a
scythe
Is it someone that I
know or is it
Someone beyond, that now
Lifts whetstone to the
steel?
My memory of seeing men
cut grass
While women and children
rake and turn
Until the hay is dry
then build a stack
Fork up the hay to the
one on top
Who walks around making
even underfoot.
And then a cover thrown
over
Held down by heavy
stones
To keep the hay
For hungry cows
When morning and nights
are cold
Farmers now admit
That was the way
Of yesterday, today
machines cut
And lift and into silage
pits
The grass that once
turned into hay.
With my scythe I carry
on
Cutting a small meadow
That once was lawn.
This year was my first
and too late
For making hay.
The grass I cut will lie
In mini stacks, not
fully dry
But dry enough to keep
Small wild things warm
through winter
And into Spring.
Next year I will be
prepared
Will clean down the
blade
Tighten bolts, peen and
sharpen
Remove the burr
And put aside my pen.
(c)Bernadette Gallagher
