Summer spell…

They are haymaking on our lane in Wales. Up and Down with the tractor, the hay falling from the trailer and floating down to rest by the edges of the road; potential nests waiting for sparrows to gather and build their homes.

The days are long, the evenings light , it is the weather for haymaking - dry and hot with clear blue skies, the wispy mare tail cloud high in the air as they gather in the ocean of grass - calming the waves with their hay making machines.

The Welsh farm men work late into the evening, up and down, load after load, emptying the top field - the one overlooking the mountains - of its bounty of dried grass. Almost dark before they gather their final load - a thin crescent moon sketched into the sky above them becoming solid as the late darkness falls, a silver crescent brooch pinned to a deepness of ultramarine silken gown.

I could look at the cut grass fields all day. Mesmerised by the buzz of bees, hypnotised by the hum, dizzied by the swirls and eddies of the patterned field, and captured by the rising warmth of mown grass. I could fall deep into the vibrant greenness of this summer spell, finding calm in that new cut smell, the heat that rises from the cut, the languid scurry of the insects in the grass.

I could drown in this summer spell; can you drown in a pasture?

I could, and perhaps I will.