Hay bales lie scattered over the close cropped stubble of what was once a meadow. Their golden hues seem infinite under the sun, each strand its own unique variation. To touch they have a roughness, a brittleness; long gone is the soft velvety spring grass, so rich in sap. Inside lie so many dried flowers and pollen that when at last the tense twine is cut there will be a plume of dust that keeps the subtle scent of the summer time past. These bales won't be out here much longer. They must be fetched inside before the autumn rains come and by the dampness that hangs in the air every farmer must expect rain to be close at hand.
Hay bales dot the twilight horizon, robbing the usual smoothness of the hills. For a few brief nights longer they are host to the winter feed and fodder for local artists. There will be a few more musings of the golden strands before the season has turned, a few more canvasses painted in as many hues of gold as can be created.
Enough hay bales have been used to make a maze in the barn. Unlike the ones of corn in the summer time these are three dimensional. It's more like being lost in a rubik's cube than anything else. Once Papa has built it and it gets his wink of approval we scatter into the golden hay. The rough strands push into our bare legs and arms, get caught up in our hair and clothing. For the next few hours all that will be heard is squeals and yells. Once we've got the lay-out sussed the second tier of games will begin...
The hay bales lie across the field like toys left behind by some messy celestial child. Each one is a fat golden domino bound tight by orange twine. Tomorrow they'll be hauled onto the trailer, piled higher than is wise and taken back to the barn. Then every available hand and a few others besides will stack them to the rafters. After that we'll raise a toast to the barn's last year like we have every year for the past ten and close the rotting doors with a plank.
Just days ago golden grasses waved in the stronger breeze of late summer, a pre-view of the winds to come. The clover and alfalfa were beginning to bloom, sending a heady scent right over the lane and to the cottages beyond. Now the grass is hay, golden and dry, the strands stirring only when a strong gust accelerates over the newly shawn meadow. Soon the baler will be brought to form the crop into a hundred hay bales or more and we will climb over the five bar gate to sit upon them in the last of the summer rays.
The hay bales that shone of gold in the daytime take on ominous forms in the twilight. Yet staying in the hedgerow isn't an option I wish to consider, not with the leaves whispering the way they are. Sometimes I hear the ghouls following, never close enough to see but sufficiently unsubtle to send my heart racing. Then it occurs to me that the bales may afford some protection, that the strands of grass concentrate the spirits of the lands and sprites of the soil. I run. When finally my fingers touch the desiccated stalks I know I am right and quickly pull at the bales to make a mini-fortress. The delicate susurration from around sings such an enchanting lullaby that finally I can rest my eyes and sleep.
By the time we fetch in the hay bales the meadow grass is already shooting green through the stubble. Over the soft swathe of virescent strands lies the hay we failed to bale, like unwanted clippings on a barber shop floor. I adore how messy the bales are, each one a golden bed-head with no regard for neatness or order. The sight of them is another signal of the passing year, not yet over but drawing to a close.
Not long after nightfall the acrid smell of smoke covers the farmhouse. From the yard flames can be seen on the hill meadow - the hay bales. Peter is sprinting into the darkness before anyone else even formulates a thought. No hay means no steer, no steer means no money, no money means starvation.