The Monday Poem

The pony, she stood beneath the tree

In the pasture that was her home

For years she'd shared it with cattle and sheep

But now she was sad and alone.

All had been fine 'till a sheep became ill

And the farmer had called in the vet

From then on she witnessed scenes

That she would never ever forget.

Within hours men in white overalls arrived

And sheep and cattle alike were all killed

The farmer and his family watched helplessly

And with an empty numbness were filled.

Then big wagons came loaded with wood

And the corpses heaped into a pyre

Then the stench of roasting flesh and choking smoke

As a lifetime's work was consumed by fire.

Later on the children came with an apple and crusts

But she could only nibble half-heartedly

For like them and their tear-stained faces

She didn't understand Government policy.

People just shrug and say they'll get compensation

For the inconvenience and shock

What they don't understand is they have to live

Until they're allowed to restock.

But farmers are resilient and will surely survive

If it's viable after this strife

For they're the salt of the earth, in a backbone industry

That's not a job, but a way of life.

But if governments don't get it right

Farming and rural life will be lost

We'll have to import everything that we need

And Joe Public will certainly know the cost.

ED Bowen, Darlington.

2001

Disastrous year 2001,

Smoke fills the air,

All the animals gone.

Can't go for my walks,

The dog at my side,

Across our beautiful

English countryside.

Anemone grow in the woods, unseen,

Wild primrose and bluebells

Sadly missed by me.

Soon wild English roses

Multi-coloured, simply grand,

By then this awful pestilence

Will have left our pleasant land.

Fred Wallis, Barnard Castle.

The Pyres

The fires can be seen burning from miles around,

Each time one winces when hearing that sound,

The smell is intense,

The smoke so dense,

Yet the smiling man claims there is nothing to fear.

The countryside is dying, can they not see?

It may not affect everyone, but it affects you and me.

Is there no end to the butchery in sight?

Culling every animal with no chance of flight.

But the smiling man obviously sees not our plight.

And for the constant "playing it down",

On the false sense of security each person should frown.

Of course, there were those who realised we would lose,

But naturally also those with less pessimistic views,

Still the smiling man claims we are winning the fight.

As it has ravaged our country from coast to coast,

And British farming no longer has anything to boast.

Young and old across the land,

May march together hand in hand,

Against the smiling man who speaks so bold,

About which he knows nothing - so I am told.

Amber Dagnall, Cleasby, Darlington.

Phoenix

Phoenix tears the heartstrings,

as, battling bravely,

he survives the disease

which claimed his mother.

An orphan. Oh! So special,

Phoenix brings a ray of hope

to farmers everywhere

Sewing the seeds of valliance.

I pray that this young calf

will create a warmth,

an atmosphere, which

will replace despair.

Phoenix, a symbol of life,

an inspiration that once more

British farmers may cling tenaciously

to a life of dedication.

Without them, Britain cannot be

a thriving nation.

May this episode point to recovery,

a chance to reclaim self-sufficiency.

Betty Robertson, Hipswell.

Bovine Sadness

Where will the dung beetle lay her eggs?

All God's bovine providers laid to rest.

The sinister pyres smoulder on yonder hill

And burial tombs go deeper still.

Spring keeps her respectful hush.

This is not the time to make the meadows lush,

The very ground must have its mourn

The keepers of the flock look on, tired and worn.

Frustrated anger seeks a place to fly

Who's to blame and why?

Some scapegoat will sure be found

But this will not appease the silent ground.

We all must share the final blame

No more to fan the accusing flame.

We are but shepherds of the global flock

And if we want to harvest still

We must lend a hand the flame to chill.

Graham Fewell, Copley, Bishop Auckland.

False Spring

Silent the morn, no birds sing

where yesterday they carolled clear.

Palely weeping, the tardy sun -

remorseful o'er the fruits of her neglect -

frees herself from the restraining arms

of the gauntly silhouetted trees

which late have cradled her,

to give a cold and tremulous light

to the sterile beauty of a world of white.

Tender buds of spring, fresh uncurled

to fulfill yesterday's sunwarmed promise

of new life, lie limply transparent,

crushed by icy sword of frost,

as trusting innocence, lured from the nest

by sweet seeming promises, falls reeling,

soul raped by life's infidelities.

Yet when true spring asserts herself

will not new blossoms grow more firm?

And when the torn soul's wounds are healed

may not new faith be formed, more sure,

and wisdom gained thereby?

Jean Collins, Goathland, Whitby.

My Prayer

Encircle me

Within the broad embrace of eternal solution.

See my struggle -

unnoticed by those upon the Earth.

Rock me, free me

Within the arms of peace,

Into a place where the wounded hide

That even briefly humans cannot reach.

Yet, within this darkest cloud

Held me "feel" and "know"

That the richest of treasures

Are yet to be revealed.

Marge Mason, Newton Aycliffe.

Wooh Ooh

A man was looking for a wife

He'd tried for years in vain.

His friend said he would have more chance

By going out to Spain.

For over there, in certain parts,

Are caves - and this is true -

You'll find a wife by standing there

And shouting loud: "Whoo, whoo."

And when an answering shout you hear,

Then you must go inside

The girl you dream of will come out

And she will be your bride.

So he went off to sunny Spain

This method to employ.

He found a cave so big and dark

His heart was full of joy.

He stood outside and cried: "Whoo, whoo."

Came back a Whoo so plain.

He dashed into the darkness and -

Got knocked down by a train.

Bill Cooksey, Newton Aycliffe.

Daughter's Delight

Draw your wonderful portrait with these words of mine

A sentence bathed in beauty, you look so divine.

Under the surface is the prettiest angel

Glorious presentation, I get sentimental

Hits me with a powerful energy to create

Tons of love pour from my heart and associate

Each word washed and blessed, with the most heavenly scent

Repeats, carries on through, strikes a pleasant accent

Shapes my mood, there's a mountain of goodness to give.

Devoted companion, I'm always protective

Equal in respect, I remain close by your side

Little things you solve, fills me with enormous pride

Interest flourish, gives you a mind of your own

Graceful manner, confidence is your cornerstone

Has every pleasure going, you build on each day

Triumphant I am, in every possible way.

John Neal, Chester-le-Street.