Home About us Books Canals Wildlife Poetry Potteries News Contact	1 The golden fields shimmer beneath the blaze of the late summer sun in cloudless sky. Once scarlet poppies faded by the rays to pale transparency before they die. 2 Along the lanes spring flowers are withered. Dry brittle heads scatter seeds like the brown dust which puffs up from the ground. Other seeds fly; parachutes rising with the hot air's thrust. 3 In the still afternoon the cattle graze; their youngsters nearly grown, their work is done. The only movement in the humid haze; butterflies seeking mates beneath the sun. 4 Meadows and pastures of their grasses shorn; turned to stubble, yellow from lack of rain. Yet now at Lammas, fields are thick with corn; with barley, oats and wheat and every grain. 5 Soon to be harvested, cut down and milled to flour; transformed to make life-giving bread. So the offspring of Mother Earth is killed; a sacrifice that others may be fed. 6 A time to work is coming; time to store the gathered crops; to reap what has been sown. Yet time enough to pause, be thankful for the first of the year's harvests fully grown. 7 Half-opened hazelnuts and elder fruits still green; signs of a harvest yet to come. Immature cabbages, potato roots, the flowering peas and beans, the swelling plum. 8 A little sadness as summer recedes. Yet there is ample beauty still around. And in the nuts and berries, fruits and seeds    the core of next years harvest can be found.
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