deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Pasture
Today I watched the farmer spreading lime,
it fell like snow, shining in the spring-time sun
dusting the trees struggling from winter's cold
the day was still, little came my way
so I stayed, I love the working farm;
wondered what sort of lime he used,
thought it would be limestone.
I use hydrate at home, it's all they sell.
Two years a go I watched him spread the muck,
this time of year, waiting for the ground to warm.
When I was young we spread the stuff in winter
when the soil was hard and easy on the horses,
but now we're told that's wrong,
its all washed down the drains and rivers
ignored by bugs and sleeping worms.
The forecast is for rain, not been much of late
harrows next and when the grass again is green
the milkers will be back udders full and heavy.
A century old, buttercups and primrose
to sweeten up the milk; never sees the plough,
the grasses have no fancy names,
no S 23s and such-like,baptised when Adam courted Eve
lost in myths and legends.
Around the farm there's wheat and kale,
spuds and beet and sillage,
but here I walk, each day I wish,
a dog and cows for company.
it fell like snow, shining in the spring-time sun
dusting the trees struggling from winter's cold
the day was still, little came my way
so I stayed, I love the working farm;
wondered what sort of lime he used,
thought it would be limestone.
I use hydrate at home, it's all they sell.
Two years a go I watched him spread the muck,
this time of year, waiting for the ground to warm.
When I was young we spread the stuff in winter
when the soil was hard and easy on the horses,
but now we're told that's wrong,
its all washed down the drains and rivers
ignored by bugs and sleeping worms.
The forecast is for rain, not been much of late
harrows next and when the grass again is green
the milkers will be back udders full and heavy.
A century old, buttercups and primrose
to sweeten up the milk; never sees the plough,
the grasses have no fancy names,
no S 23s and such-like,baptised when Adam courted Eve
lost in myths and legends.
Around the farm there's wheat and kale,
spuds and beet and sillage,
but here I walk, each day I wish,
a dog and cows for company.
Published 24th May 2015
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24th May 2015 2:46pm
24th May 2015 3:01pm
24th May 2015 2:53pm
Thankyou Ahavati
it is the simplest of events that go towards life. My favourite poet is Robert Frost who uses the simplest even mundane onwhich to write A poem has two constituents the structure of the words and the subject few readers realise this. Sometimes Iwrite an erotic piece, the structure at times not as good as it should be yet it attracts scores of readers (even hundreds) while a well structured poem with a 'dull' subject passes unread. This poem is of a very ordinary rural scene (lime and manure); there is more shit in the erotic.
it is the simplest of events that go towards life. My favourite poet is Robert Frost who uses the simplest even mundane onwhich to write A poem has two constituents the structure of the words and the subject few readers realise this. Sometimes Iwrite an erotic piece, the structure at times not as good as it should be yet it attracts scores of readers (even hundreds) while a well structured poem with a 'dull' subject passes unread. This poem is of a very ordinary rural scene (lime and manure); there is more shit in the erotic.
24th May 2015 3:22pm
I understand and have witnessed what you're saying. I would rather attract one soul-tribe brother or sister that will change my life forever than one hundred other.
24th May 2015 7:06pm
Thankyou for your comments. I agree with you. There are more soul brothers than the one hundred other !
