The Farm

Alone, standing in a reddened paddock, Dust and heat dance and sway, Then, a small dead breeze joins right in, For a barren and baked ballet, And the windmill shrieks a painful scream, As arthritis turns around, To fill a dry dam with dust and heat, From deep beneath the ground, Still, together they stand, hand in hand, Generations of father and son, Beaten down by the scorching sky, Ever since the drought’d begun. You see, the farmer plays with the land, Growing and playing with heat, Forever, with the dust and dry, Growing the food that we eat.