Skip to main content

Aftermath



I love the word Aftermath, with its apparent Anglo-Saxon simplicity.

I read that it means after the mowing, perhaps a second or later mowing; more specifically, it can refer to the crop of grass which springs up after the mowing earlier in the summer.

Even if the quality of the grass be criticised as not having the fragrance or sweetness of the first crop, or worse, dismissed as 'the bloomless aftermath', it is after all new growth – a reminder of what has been, and of what is yet to come.



Aftermath


Yes, the grass will grow again.

There will be another season

here upon these same old fields

where sheep shall safely graze again

as if it were the first occasion.

 

Fresh growth of flimsy blades will spring

to feed a new-born generation

here once more, in time, expected

along with others, all those others

drawn forth to prosper in the sun.

 

And some who left will come again

remembering this place.

A pair of swallows from the past

will score the sky above the grass

which will have grown to feed them all.

 

So in that season I shall come

and stand again on these old fields

amongst the new life springing up

to grow with the sun with all the rest

history interred beneath my feet.

 




Aftermath – a simple word?

The original meaning was somewhat complex, but now it's been extended to mean the later consequences of a particular incident or occurrence, especially if bad. Some dictionaries give this as the primary meaning.

So it's not a simple word at all.

For me, it speaks of time, especially of the continuity of time – past, present and future – not of bad later consequences, but of what can appear after the harvest is reaped, indeed of the inevitable necessity of clearing the ground so that new life can spring up.

I hope my poem celebrates the continuity and interconnectedness of all life.

And all flesh is as the grass, whether we happen to be sheep, humans, swallows or any other living creature. That grass may be mowed once, twice or countless times, but like the seasons and life itself, it will return.

And perhaps, after all, being interred is the best place for the past, even if it feels quite close.







 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Comments

  1. Anonymous4 September 2023 at 12:15

    Beautiful

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous4 September 2023 at 12:32

    "A pair of swallows from the past

    will score the sky above the grass"

    Yes

    ReplyDelete
  3. Pat M4 September 2023 at 17:23

    I also love Aftemath in its old usage, and loved turning my sheep out to graze on it after the hay was safely in. Thanks for extending it to thoughts of time and succession.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Anonymous6 September 2023 at 15:37

    Lovely green grassy poem. Makes you want to walk in the fields, breathe the air. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Anonymous6 September 2023 at 15:38

    Best wishes Harbans.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Concatenation of Catchwords

    My daughter’s cat has captivated her family. Even I – being more of a dog person (Timmy our Jack Russell hates cats) – found myself admiring his grace and beauty, and all those skills a cat deploys and enjoys.  Thinking about their cat, I realised how many words contain 'cat'; so it was that this poem took shape. Predictably, I then thought I should write a dog poem. I didn’t actually get very far, having identified only a few dog words: after dogma/dogmatic, dogged, lying doggo and Venetian doges I began to run out. So the dog poem had to wait, its tongue hanging out. But having just gone to my (big) dictionary and found a long list of dog words and phrases, ranging from a certain Shakespearian Dogberry through dog collars, dog days and dog-eared to a dog’s dinner, the Dogstar and dogwatch, I now feel like telling Timmy something can be found to be thrown, and he can wag his tail – even chase a cat.    A Concatenation of Catchwords   Where ...
8 comments
Read more

Gold

  . But maybe I should offer no apology. Poetry has the right, responsibility even, to deal with all that is human: to communicate, to share emotion, to stimulate thought and to help understanding – along with  much more of course. So listen then for a moment to a man, normal in many ways, convinced of his own normality and decency, yet deeply involved in evil. Evil is so complicated. Horrific actions can be justified; they may not even be seen as such by the perpetrator, when evil is all around and worse things are being done... Gold   My name is Hellinger.  I mine for gold. Not for me those specks of dust flushed down some distant stream, nor heavy work with spade and hammer upon unyielding rock.  The gold I find has been refined – I leave it to others to fire the furnace.  My finished gold falls in little balls to rattle in my bowl.   No fight, no piracy – this is not stealing, rather rescue. No gold rush here – t...
3 comments
Read more

Wings of Song

  Just me, and that sound. One man,  earth and time-bound; one bird, free in an empty sky. A unique occasion. But a moment shared by so many others... Which experience then, despite – or because even – of its unoriginality, I hope might justify another  poem.   Lark Is that it, that little speck – is that the bird which never stops to take a breath, the bird whose song someone called a silver chain of many links – can you see where it begins, this chain of sound linking me to somewhere high – like the string of a kite, a vanishing line which tugs with a life of its own, as if sounds by themselves could draw me up towards the origin of that song – while all I can do is strain my neck focusing upon infinity as I scan the sky, seeking the source of a singing that hints at eternity?
5 comments
Read more