A poem by Anne Richards

[roscoe erf]

They ran to the groceries, they filled up their carts,
They emptied the Tops and Price Chopper and Walmart,
They panicked and fought and then panicked some more,
Then they rushed to their homes and they locked all the doors.

The food will be gone! The milk eggs and cheese!
The yogurt! The apples! The green beans and peas!
The stores have run out, now what will we do?
They’ll be starving and looting and nothing to do!
Then they paused, and they listened a moment or two.
And they did hear a sound, rising over the fear,
It started out far, then began to grow near.
But this sound wasn’t sad, nor was it new,
The farms were still doing what farms always do.
The food was still coming, though they’d emptied the shelves,
The farms kept it coming, though they struggled themselves,
Though the cities had forgotten from where their food came,
The farms made them food every day, just the same.
Through weather and critics and markets that fall,
The farms kept on farming in spite of it all.
They farmed without thank yous.
They farmed without praise.
They farmed on the hottest and coldest of days.
They’d bought all the food, yet the next day came more,
And the people thought of something they hadn’t before.
Maybe food, they thought, doesn’t come from a store.
Maybe farmers, perhaps, mean a little bit more.

 

[roscoe erf]

The Farmers Lament.

Why do these barns stand empty,
On this old family farm,
And when did farming smaller holdings,
Actually do the country harm,
He was happy with his hundred ewes,
Few horses, hens and sows,
And never really saw the need,
To milk more than thirty cows,
Most of what they ate, he grew,
As DEFRA looks to blame,
He didn’t need the plastic tags,
He knew his stock by name,
But he finds himself retiring,
Because his joints are stiff with age,
His son’s moved to the city,
Where they pay a proper wage,
So he’s in the hands of agents,
And their joy is plain to see,
Not a thought about his lifetimes work,
Just a big fat seller’s fee,
They split the farm up into lots,
Such is their endeavour,
Without the sickening realisation,
Another farm is lost forever,
When the farmhouse sells at auction,
Should he really mind?
When it’s bought by the very people,
Who have robbed his pension blind?
It’s sold with tiny paddocks,
Because they’d like to keep a horse,
But they love the look of foxes,
So they’ll never hunt, of course,
They won’t like crowing cockerels,
Or the smell of muck being spread,
The winter sound of gunfire,
Or the thought of game shot dead,
These barns have stood a century,
Will soon be filled with glass and steel,
Developers will leave some beams in,
So it has that ‘country’ feel,
All the strangers move in slowly,
And all the country skills are lost,
Do we think just about the value?
But ignore the long term cost,
He sells the farm and wonders,
What all his works been for,
And how will these new folks manage,
If there comes another war,
When Sainsbury’s shelves are empty,
There’s no wheat or livestock reared,
They will look for farms and farmers,
To find that both have disappeared.
By Neil Andrew