Farming
In the harsh reality, of the fierceness of the land
the farmer walks over furrows of ploughed sand,
in the distance calves bellow, his eyes look at the blue,
if a rain cloud is appearing somewhere
but the sun scorches like an ach-enemy.
There are lumps of sand clinging together,
his crops are spread over a distance
when a light breeze only just touches the stubbles,
in the harsh reality.
This piece of ground, this farm has a strong bond with him,
he walks to a tractor with a flat tire,
see the sun growing faint in the west,
pray for rain, while he trusts in God
on the blessings from His almighty hand,
in the harsh reality.
poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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