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by Vic Smith

I grip the handles of the scythe and swing it right to left, right to left. I keep the blade low but away from the dulling stones. It slices through the stems and the wheat falls to my left, into a neat row.

The scythe moves easily; I can work like this for hours. It is satisfying to do something well. This is a good day.

Do not mistake me. I do not forget the bad days or the hungry days, or the pain of life and its grief. I do not forget the long, cold, miserable winters, and the tiny coffins going into the ground.

I forget none of these things; they are in my bones, but, with the warmth of the sun on my back and a breeze stirring the leaves of the oaks, I remember what it is to be alive.

I swing the blade, right to left, right to left. I hear the hiss of the scythe as it cuts through the stalks. I hear birds singing in the hedgerow, bees humming.

It will soon be time to rest; I have worked since dawn. I will have some bread and cheese, and a good draught of ale. I will do then what I always do. I will lean back and look up at the sky, and think of the time when I will go with Sarah to the church on the hill to say our vows.

I will dream of Sarah, and her strong brown legs, her clear blue eyes, and that smile. I will hear the laughing and shouting and squabbling of the little ones that we will raise, when we are given our cottage by the hay-meadow.

The sounds have changed.

Now I see that I am wrong. Today is not for dreaming.

It is time for the reaper, clattering behind me, coming closer and closer.

There is no birdsong, now, no plodding or whinnying or snorting from the horses. There is only the rattle of machinery, and the tramp, tramp, tramp of the crop being swept into the blades. It is a blind and heartless thing; it marches across the land, and treads down everything it meets.

I swing the blade from right to left. I look straight ahead; there is no need to turn. I do not have to see it to know that its great iron wheels are pounding the earth.

There will be flecks of red lying amongst the mess that it leaves behind.

These poor scraps of colour will soon be gone. They are petals torn from broken poppies.


Vic Smith used to write a lot when he was young, but after that work and life got in the way. Now that he’s retired, he’s picking it up again. As he’s basically lazy, he tends to keep to short stories, though he has attempted a couple of narrative poems (old style).

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