Living the Loving Life of a Farmer

A steady blanket of funereal rain fell for days, From the wintry heaven, onto the ground. And by about three in the morning I was woken by A screaming pleading sort of sound. I had clumsy boots and akubra, and a blood scratched Drizabone To walk me towards this holler. And then I found her on her side, in labour, Rolling with defiant mud amongst the squalor. This wasn’t good, no time for medical expertise, Or people who have studied what to do. She had dystocia, she hadn’t dilated enough, Her baby was too large to break through. She’d stopped trying, but on my knees I could see The feet of her baby were out hanging still. “She’s lost her baby. She’d given up hope. She mustn’t die.” I needing all of my skill. Immediately handy was the wire fence strainer, That could be used to ease out her beautiful infant. My hands were cut, my lungs were full, She wailed but I remained focussed and persistent. First its head, then its body, A purge of everything else soon followed all over my feet. And I leapt to its mouth to try and shock it to life, And it breathed a breath sounding so sweet. Within fifteen minutes the cow and the calf were standing, Drenched in the mud and the rain. And I returned to the house, cooked a billy of tea, On my coat just another blood stain.