Down on the farm.
On days when the skies were filled with rain
Black as ink clouds sat heavily over our little haven
Jobs around the farm were curtailed
Which gave us children more time inside
With granny and granddad.
Times like this were like gold dust to us
We learned to play card games
Bake bread, churn butter, and sharpen a briar hook
Mix feed for chickens, pulp beet, and snag turnips.
Through the window, watch the actions of the ferret.
Not all in that order, we might even have got a pull of
Granddads pipe. Not all in that order of course
Education that money just could not buy.
© Chris Black.
Poetry from The Man Shed
21st April 2020
~The Poet’s Poet~
Chris's Blog 
Money doesn’t buy knowledge, wisdom nor years of life’s experiences…. Oh, those were days, down on the farm, I remember them well,…. for me it was Aunty Phil and Uncle Bill’s farm out Freshwater Creek way…
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Thanks Ivor, Freshwater Creek, now there’s a title for a poem if I ever heard one?
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Our good friend Walt Page must not be to good health wise as he has not posted for the past while. Wishing him and Susan well
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