Joys Of Farming

This time the thunder stays away from home
and grumbles in the hills behind the rain,
the skies are grey where drizzle falls alone,
atoning for the years of drought-filled pain.
Rejoice, sweet voices chorus in pure glee,
this rain is Nature’s gift – do not despair,
come; join our joyful dance in company,
come revel in benevolence of care.

I shake my hair to free its drops of sweat
which deem a complement to singing rain,
but work awaits, despite my deep regret,
the work we’ve missed and time we can’t regain.
The joys of farming, so they say – we sigh,
while watching angels soar uncertain skies.
© 5 February 2008, I. D. Carswell