My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Friends bought us tickets to the Green Scythe Fair in Muchelney and I took my camera along.  At the heart of the Fayre was a meadow brimming with hay.  It had been carefully divided into squares and a procession of heats were taking place when we arrived.  The sweet swish of the scythe is such an antidote to the ear after the whine of strimmers and dust clouds of combines.  Once the hay had been cut the children were allowed in to do what children have always done since time immemorial - building dens and throwing clouds of cut hay at each other.  A wonderfully grounding, greening, restorative day out.

Title taken from Robert Frost’s poem ‘Mowing’