Reader Andy McGovern has been in touch with Irish Country Living to share his poem, Mowing With Scythe, which captures another era in Irish farming. Andy, who hails from Cloone, Co Leitrim, has motor neuron disease, but writes using voice recognition software and a foot mouse.
Reader Andy McGovern has been in touch with Irish Country Living to share his poem, Mowing With Scythe, which captures another era in Irish farming.
Andy, who hails from Cloone, Co Leitrim, has motor neuron disease, but writes using voice recognition software and a foot mouse.
He explains the inspiration behind the poem:
“The precious vision of my beloved father, a lone man in the meadow cutting with scythe, is embedded in my memory.
“I am now disabled with Motor Neurone Disease. Having lost the use of both my hands and arms, the relaying of this vision would be an impossible task without the use of modern technology. Thank you to the staff at the Central Remedial Clinic in Clontarf and the Irish Motor Neuron Disease Association, who provided me with a computer and foot switch – the vital link needed to communicate and release those trapped memories to the outside world.
“In 1938, I was a carefree five-year-old child, running in that meadow. Alert enough to thankfully capture the scene and hold it in my memory all through those 79 years. This poem is my own personal tribute to that now nearly forgotten era. My dearest wish would be to preserve that era’s memory for the future generations, so that they may treasure and appreciate it as much as I do.”
Glossary
Swart: Swath.
Gallus: Brace.
Foot on switch: Foot-controlled keyboard.
Cast: Apparatus attached to foot. CL
Mowing with Scythe
O precious ink, you flow at my heel,
You are my open window as the memories reveal.
Time has stilled the ghosts in my mind,
These vivid pictures I now leave behind.
Weights of memories press the switch down,
Many pages from the past turn around.
I will release this vision before my going,
A lone shadow of the great man
mowing.
The scythe placed carefully on rafter high,
Secure in time as winter months go by.
Wedges and ring of iron bound together
Carefully supported by old worn leather.
With one Gallus up and another let down,
The dark shadow swings blade around.
A swart of grass with scythe now kissed,
Not one single ‘traithnin’ ever missed.
O rich meadow soon pared to ground,
Such skill as scythe is swung around.
Rich leafy grass still standing tall,
One strong workman does it all.
Beads of satisfaction on his weary brow,
Crystal clear memories fill me now.
A time to stop and sharpen blade with care,
Whicka, whicka... rings in the
summer air.
Scythe on shoulder now takes rest,
Swift movements of scythe-stone know best.
Blade restored to razor sharp,
Ready to challenge another swart.
Chimes of bells fill mid summer’s earth,
Renewing vows taken at his birth.
With cap in hand he shows respect,
A bended knee and a genuflect.
A welted hand reaches into the shade,
To taste the buttermilk and bread just made.
Viewing the meadow heaving on its side,
His heart enriched with simple pride.
A spit to his hand ignites the work he loves,
Corncrakes race to the Heavens above.
Man and nature happily sharing God’s span,
As a beehive yields its bounty to his eager hand.
An era now slips from our world so fast,
I try to preserve and make it last.
That shadowy figure always at my side,
You were my flesh, my blood, my heart’s pride.
In my Twilight days with foot on switch,
I have release my yearning so
bewitched,
The scythe to me is a thing of past
I’ll do my mowing with this cast.
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