Field and River

Grandpa John ran the hay blade
all day long in the hot August sun
harvesting the river bottom grass.
Swaths of bright green stalks
fell to lie and die upon the field;
drying, slowly drying.
The aroma was rich in my nose
as I wandered to the bank
overlooking the Androscoggin,
so low this time of year.
The water a mere trickle
compared to the springtime
deluge that races along.

Grandpa John died in 1986
and the bank took back
the old farm and fields
he had been barely holding onto.
I remember a bald auctioneer's head
and an old hay rake gleaming dully
in the hot August sun.
His life and dreams were shown,
upon a block and sold for pittance
by a fast talking man with a gavel.
The river watched with indifference,
another silent spectator
moving slowly along.

In the hot August sun
I came to visit the old farm,
Expecting knee deep grass
in fields where I played as a child.
Instead of the open glen,
I saw driveways, street lights,
telephone poles and electric wires
from the highway to the bank
of the old Androscoggin.
I wondered if the river
measures time and progress,
or even worries about people
as it goes moving slowly along.