As I wipe dust, from my heat weary eyes,
I lift up my head, to Sun-drenched skies.
Sadly, but surely, seems it has taken hold,
the story of drought, in 83 must be told.
It’s November, a time that personifies spring,
crops should be rich and beginning to sing.
Parked on a ridge, overlooking the sand,
everywhere I look, I cannot understand.
Months of harsh rays, and morns of black frost;
the crops’ end is so near, at such a terrible cost.
Drifting over the hill, is a wave of fine dust,
follows the footsteps, of dry sheep on the cusp.
I walk through the paddock, the best part I can see,
wheat heads leaning over, below the fold of my knee.
The dead plant I uprooted, has not taken hold,
no resistance at all, to last Tuesday morn’s cold.
Grains are all pinched, the whiskers are brown,
destined for hay, this crop will be cut down.
Rabbit burrows abandoned, no birds circling by,
I struggle to hold back, dusty tears from my eye.
Out of wind and the dust, I no longer have doubt,
I sat quietly confirming this Eighty-three drought.
As long shadows pass slowly, over cruel and dry land,
it appears farmers were dealt one final cruel hand.
Relief comes as darkness hides nature’s cruel sins,
alas, at harvest time, we shall see more empty bins.
By combining Poetry into a photograph you get POETPICS or PHOTOPOETRY.
A phrase of philosophy integrated into a photograph = PHILOETRY
Donate to the Smith family appeal via the link or buy an A4 / A3 size Glossy ‘Poetpic’
Search for my auto signature © James Irvine (hidden within Poetry Photographs)
See how this and other poems play a part in the Story 'Finding Harvey’, crafting another dimension of creative writing = 3D-Poetry.