Billy Bulsons Farm

My mam used to clean at Billy Bulson’s farm, A magical place of mystery and charm, With geese that cackled and hissed and every day. Without my mam I’d have run away As they charged with flapping wings. I was really scared of those fierce big things With their open beaks and lowered necks. It really hurt if you got a peck. But through the flock and into that house of joy Where I was treated like their own little boy. A passage was guarded by a stuffed dog fox Watching the world from his glass walled box. I knew he watched with his beady eye And I always walked respectfully by. Out in the orchard with their daughter Jill, Amazingly we were never ill, Stuffing our faces with fruit on the ground Fallen from the trees growing all around. Apples and pears and plums and cherries, In the kitchen garden currants and berries. Once a week was butter making day. Mrs Bulson would separate and skim the whey Then pour the rest in her electric churn Driven by a rubber belt that made it turn Producing yellow butter fresh and creamy I can taste it still - so fresh and dreamy. She’d shape it all into little square pats With a pair of special wooden bats Sometimes there was a little pat for me To carry it home and eat with our tea. They still had Shires working on the crops. Those old boys just never seemed to stop. I can still feel the thrill deep inside That first time Billy Bulson let me ride Holding me on that Shire’s back As it plodded its powerful track Turning the potatoes out of the land To be grasped by the picker’s hands. The more they picked the more their pay, Paid by the bag, not by the day. Close my eyes and I’m back there still Guzzling the fruit with my friend Jill When mam cleaned at Billy Bulson’s farm A magical place of mystery and charm