Drought And Potatoes
The rhythmic rise and fall of swinging hoe,
Red rising dust that coats his arms and legs
And all for spuds that without rain won't grow;
Each plant with wilted leaves to heaven begs
Here on this barren hilltop where the gaze
In all directions shows the blasted earth,
And from the sky, the scorching searing blaze
Of sun that robs the land of all its worth.
Like tombstones stand the forest giants now dead,
All strangled by the pioneer's ringing axe;
They cast no shade upon the digger's head
As from the dust, the stunted crop he sacks.
A fence is strung from one dead tree to next,
‘Tis all that says this patch of earth unique;
Around it lie the bones of death perplexed;
The logs and limbs - the past that cannot speak.
He stops to rest, his back to dead wood pressed;
A cooling drink, a humble meal of bread,
Then back he goes to carry on his quest.
At each day's end the path to home he'll tread
As on his weary shoulder go the spoils,
Hard wrung from tortured soil that cries for rain,
As day on day for scant reward he toils.
A farmer bred - so used to meager gain.
Queensland 1968
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
Added by Poetry Lover
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