Audience

I wish you could see my father
mow with a scythe.
Handle across his lap,
left hand supporting the blade
with singing whetstone
he sharpens steel.

Finished, he stands,
bends and swings
taking power from wind.
Tall grass falls before the shining blade
in rapt amazement
at his strength and grace.

Whispered whistle at his mouth,
the sound of good work,
he rakes fresh hay
lifts it, lets it drop.
With softest swish
cuttings settle into place.

Shirt drenched in sweat
he walks away
scythe shouldered
rake in hand.