Field after field
Of ripe golden corn
Wave in the breeze
On a fine sunny morn
Awaiting the farmer
Their ripeness to test
Before he will harvest
The time he knows best
After the harvest
Fields full of hay
Baled up into blocks
At the end of the day
Bales onto trailers
Pulled into store
Cleared field after field
Until there’s no more
The stubble gets burnt
Its ash tills the soil
Ploughed in after winter
For another years toil
© 2008 David Threadgold
Rambling Riddles & Rhymes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem