Friday, August 17, 2018

Foot And Mouth Disease

April 13, 2010 by  
Filed under Poetry

The Rowan Tree, red berried, weeping,

Leans toward the wind listening?.

Heading the valley, waking — sleeping.

The Farmer stands looking across his land,

Seeing nothing, yet seeing all first hand,

Remembering the waiting for the killer band.

First the dreaded signs, then the Veterinary call,

Tests, three days waiting for the results to fall.

Confirmed–Men in white coats, and rubber boots,

Start the culling, and killing shoots.

His Dairy herd, his well bred flock,

Now left where they fell, all his stock.

Urgent calls to have them burned or buried,

But Ministry men cannot be hurried.

Then the convoy of heavy machinery,

Preparing, and building the funeral pyre,

Bloated bodies, legs stiffened, and pointing

To the sky, from the flames protruding.

Days of flames, smoke, and smell,

Adding still more to his own private Hell,

Waiting, and praying for the funeral pyres end,

Such a large funeral, he had to attend.

His Fathers, and Grandfathers Stockmanship,

Ended, by gunshots, just like the crack of a whip,

Next the cleansing, gallons of disinfectant.

Is this the end? His Son’s not expectant!

Nothing to hand down to continue the chain,

He tries to hide his personal disdain.

The Politicians smile, their Cheshire cat grins,

The gyrating Doctors, increase their spins.

“Cheap Food” the cry on polling day,

While listening to what the “Fat Cats” say.

Yes cheap food would be nice.

But the farmer pays the final price.

The Rowan Tree, Red berried, Weeping,

Leaning to the wind listening?

Heading the valley, without animals grazing.

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