On Rogation Day, we walk and pray
We beat the bounds, to holy sounds
To God, we say, give us today,
Our daily bread and breath.
The farmers talk, of sheep on chalk,
Artisan wells of yore.
The Sussex Downs, the Telscombe Tye,
The passing of the seasons by.
But surely, it no longer matters
That man ploughs the fields and scatters
The Co-op store has all we need,
For none of us take any heed,
Global warming we ignore,
There’s plenty in the shop next door.
The farmer leans upon the gate
The Suffolk Punch reflects its fate
The Harvest Festival remains
Not in celebration,
But just in name.
Copyright © Gerald O’Brien 2019