A young man with a scythe;
the summer grasses tumble
in his shadow.

Muscles ripple in the sun

along his sweat-drenched
shoulders.
Planted; swinging gracefully,
rhythm singing swish,
he ballet dances lightly.

A cracked and emptied snail shell

shatters beneath his feet.
Yoked across his neck,
the wooden handle’s heavy,
the curved blade a sword.

He bends beneath the beech tree

and its panoply of gold.
Bathed in shady cool,
his skin chilled now with droplets,
trickling, tickling down his back.

The wind shakes a soft sea-spray,

the leaves murmur of the tide.
Dust covers his boots
grit sifts down between his toes
home is an ache away.

Thirsty, he grabs a bottle

hidden deep in shady roots.
Drinks sweetly; cool delicious
juice of apples, fragrant,
slides down burning throat.

In a long forgotten orchard

bruised windfalls soften and
ferment.
Who carved the mill stone,
grooved its bed for the pressing?
Watched raw cider flow?

Gratefully he folds his limbs

and leans his tired body.
With his eyes heavy, drooping,
he takes his sojourn,
cushioned by his grasses, mown.

Clouds build, snow-mountains on
blue.

the climb to the peak, easy.
Sleep now, the warm earth
holds him close in a cocoon,
dreams him a butterfly,

rising on gossamer wings.

He floats into pastures new.
Renga composed by Jo Young and Anna Dear