Harvest home.

Broken down combines, parts not in stock, and the baler smashed a wheel when it hit a rock. The cowman's sick, old Bert has been dragged out, he is eighty four and suffers from the gout.

Ninety six more acres waiting to be cut, the student's got his trailer turned over in a rut. The church harvest festival is in full swing, from underneath a bonnet I can hear the church bells ring.

They sing about the ploughs and the good seed on the land, but we are still at work and could really use a hand. There are calves to be fed and sheep to be moved, they are singing our praises, but we are not amused.

Storm clouds gather, but there's work still to do, the combine's patched together with string and glue. It limps on slowly and bellows out black smoke, gathering all in safely is becoming quite a joke.

Round and round the headland, up and down the track, Old Bert's gone home with a twisted sore back. The choir are singing about soft refreshing rain, but the weatherman's forecast is a force 10 hurricane.

The harvest supper is held in the church hall, the local village folk are having quite a ball. but we don't mind if they've eaten all the grub, because if we finish harvest, we're heading down the pub!

© Jan Millward.