The Old Farm Yard Poem by Gert Strydom

I see a spade making holes
and shoots of peach trees
Appearing in rows in an orchard.

There’s a hot sun
that hangs above in a bright blue sky
and sweat flow in streams,
from under the old dark brown hat.

The old red Massi Ferguson tractors
machine has turned for a last time
and red dirt lies blown thick,
where it stands on the side against an old oak tree.

At the shed there’s a big silver tank
full of expensive diesoline
and I hear the boreholes
pump humming monotonous
and I see spill points in the distance
spraying water on the field
and the smell of wet ground
hangs like a blessing
in the air.

An old big Cock
raise its white wings
and crows angrily,
when the green John Deere tractor
with its trailer full of workers
stop in front of the homestead
Where it stands and scratches.

It’s great to eat country fare,
but the peace and tranquillity
on the old farm yard
me desire
to also live at such a place.