I guess it’s too late to live on a farm.
I guess I’d want to go south for a farm.
I guess, the land is much better down there.
I guess I could start with stock and move on to crops.
I guess I would have to purchase a bitch or two.
I guess I want dogs that are already trained.
I guess I could cope with delivering a litter, be it dogs, pigs, cows, or cats.
I guess a farm isn’t a farm without a stray cat or two.
I guess I’ll have to contend with rats or keep the cats hungry.
I guess a farmer needs a good breakfast.
I guess that means eggs for eggs over easy; so add in the hens.
And because we already have the porkers there’ll be bacon for breakfast,
Though top of a farmer’s dinner menu might well be spiced belly of pork.
There’ll be none of that watching TV Bake Of programmes when I’m down on the farm.
In the orchard we’ll have apples to go with the pork. And peaches or kiwifruit for desert.
And inspectors will advise the confines for the blackberries of the non-prickly sort.
And I guess for a time, Sylvia was a farmer but rather than rave about how’s y’ Father I shall rave for more care of our environment.
I don’t know too many poets in my neck of proposed woods who have the time to be farmers.
And I imagine, as Sylvia no doubt did, I’ll work hard at the farming and harder still at the poetry.
Good excuse, or poor for not farming, but it will do for me.
I guess though, my poor little cottage wouldn’t realise a fraction of the realty I might need
for the kind of farm I had in mind.
Benita H. Kape © 1.4.2015