Years Of Famine by Will Mayo

In the first year of the famine,

the dust rolled in,

hot and dry,

like a bad man's breath.

It brought death to the fields

and took away many a cow's last aching thirst.

The next year brought the locusts,

swarms of them,

so that you could not see the sky.

Many a crop died that year

and one baby was smothered to death

by a passing stranger.

The third year came with the floods,

brought on by buckets and buckets of rain.

There was no harvest that year

and two teenagers were found intertwined

by the bole of a tree,

their bodies aching for one last breath.

The next year brought hail and a long winter

with no spring to follow.

And Farmer John closed up his store;

said goodbye for the last time.

No tears were shed.

They'd by this time turned to ice.

The next year many a farmer went mad

and set fire to his crop.

When the fellows tried to protect their own

they were shot.

And gravestones were plenty that year.

In the sixth year, the town appeared a ghost.

Apathy was the plague that year,

And in expecting a downturn they sure got one.

Tom down the street shot himself and all his kids.

No funeral was held that year.

The seventh year brought a bit around.

Jonathan planted his spade in the ground,

Said, “This is it.”

Not much of a crop that year,

but sure was worth the effort.

Since then things have been feasting for a while.

But not much better.

The gathering isn't all, you see.

The farmer's burden begins at sunrise,

but the waiting, the waiting never ends.

Will Mayo