All may be safely gathered in
and tucked up in the drier.
Thanks have been sung in every church
by every local choir.
For those who work in arable
it really has just started,
the time to get in next years crop
is not for the faint hearted.
They plough a field and then it rains,
they wait for it to dry.
Then work like hell to get it done
with one eye on the sky.
And back and forth they check the soil
and hope that it will go,
if they don't start the drilling
well only weeds will grow.
The autumn days are getting short.
The leaves fall off the trees.
The forecast talks of showery bursts
to frustrate and to tease.
But then they say that it is fair
for just about a week.
The grease guns fly, the diesels in
the drill has had a tweak.
And then it's cakes and sandwiches
to fuel the tractor drivers,
they come out even if they're ill
you'd never call them skivers.
Up and down they plough the fields
relentless is their task,
balancing a whole pork pie
and coffee in a flask.
They carry on long after dark,
you'll spot them by their lights.
They work the fields all through the day
and long into the night.
Then they come home for a plate of grub
sat in the microwave,
then rinse their grime off in the shower
but are too tired to shave.
And this goes on week after week
until it's put to bed,
the work that goes on while we sleep
to make sure we're all fed.