A poem by Eoghan Ó Tuairisg
He looked over the field,
sharp eyes, steady eyes,
watching for the winds trace, gripping the syde,
the new syde turned in the fordge,
the wet stone, drawing music from the metal blade,
before he swung the syde with strong hands,
the hands of a master,
while the stone sang in his back pocket.
I stood on the rock watching my father mowing the hay,
with the small black flies hovering over his slavish sweating head,
tea time Dad, sweet tea from the Cidona bottle,
I watched him drink it and lay down ,
like your friend, Pádraic Chóil Coilm always said,
have a rest and a laugh,
In the name of God children, its time to start back to the syde and stone, to lay the swaths in order.
the sun going down on the mowed field,
the sweat of work done,
the swaths, spread gently ,
quietly on the deep earth
The earth you are a part of,
now the syde is silent
The field overgrown
As I sit on this rock looking out to where the master used to be.