Haymaking

A prose poem

Photo by the author

From the ‘Letters to my Daughter’

Near the close of January, the new year settles into its frame like a recently finished painting. The summer creases around the edges. Light dips into the ocean.

I busy myself with small, everyday tasks; watering flowers, hanging washing, gathering words. To scatter them in nooks and corners, like breadcrumbs or glass marbles, for you to find.

The other day, it was the word haymaking.

For they were making hay at Aunty Wendy’s again, like they did that summer you were there. In January of 2009. You turned fourteen three months earlier.

I looked at the photos until the day paled and smudged like a tear-soaked face.

Some days, words are slow to come, or they don’t come at all.

Still, in the evenings, I sit by the window; the wind whispers in the leaves, rain knocks on the window panes, birds bicker in the treetops.

Night falls like a shroud.

Thank you for reading.