Harvest

The crops are cropped by combines
And the crew cut fields remain
With swiss roll bales and bundles
Where the growing crop was slain.

The combines clog the traffic
And the tractors do it too
With trailers full of produce
That is food for me and you.

But first it’s processed nicely
With additives for taste,
Then wrapped in crinkly plastic
With a bar code on the base.

The days are gone forever
Of the reapers in the field,
The golden stooks of harvest
That were beaten for their yield.

The work was hard and heavy
But the comradeship was true
And the harvest supper beckoned
When the harvesting was through.

We may have lost the labour
But we’ve also lost the fun.
Now there’s only combine maintenance
When the harvesting is done.