Bend down and gather up neat swathes of corn, <br />Follow on the man with the scythe in the morn; <br />Binding every sheaf tight with a band of its own <br />And remembering the spring when it was sown: <br />Seed, as a blessing shook, on fresh fertilised soil; <br />Before our eyes a green field of hope in a while. <br />Haymaking as the corn ripened in summertime, <br />Now it's ripe and ready to be mown in its prime. <br />In the cornfield that would shimmer and shiver; <br />In each sheaf the ears are now bound together. <br />But soon the thresher's here with its rise and fall; <br />Farmers from around know it's a call to them all. <br />With their pikes held aloft having plenty of craic; <br />That strong man hoists a bag of oats on his back <br />And carries it up the stairs to the loft in the barn <br />As he looks forward to tea and swopping a yarn; <br />There the man of the house by a bagful he lingers <br />And he lets the new grain run through his fingers.<br /><br />Matt Mooney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/new-grain/
