Dust devils dancing, speeding across the plain,
Farmers gazing at the sky, for faintest signs of rain,
Dry parched paddocks, no slightest hint of green,
It seems the hope of rain is nothing but a dream.
Grasses brown and brittle crunch, crackling underfoot,
Leaves on bushes falling, dried and black like soot,
Lizards scuttle, seeking shady patches,
Distant bushfires burning all around them left in ashes.
Scorching days, with no relief at night,
Years of drought, add to the farmers plight
Prayers are offered up, Oh Lord hear our pleas,
Just for some relief, from conditions such as these.
The season drags on and on, as it surely must,
While the farmer in despair sees his fields turn into dust,
Hot Northerlys blowing good topsoil away,
Can we put up with these conditions , for just another day,
To give up seems so futile, we’ve been through all this before,
Surviving tougher times than this, with our backs against the
wall,
Hanging on so grimly til the rains at last appear,
And we can go on farming for just another year.
For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the ri
(Richard M. Feldman) Ever since I was a young boy, the only thing I wanted to be was a cowboy. I wanted to own and work on a real ranch, with cattle and horses. Especially horses.
While I never became a cowboy, considering everything I have done
Share
Print
Save
Follow
there is always next year ...
good write
john+