Farm and anything bucolic
When I was a kid we used to visit our grandparents in the province during weekends. They owned so many farming fields and animals. I remembered when my grandad taught me (and my siblings) how to plant corns. It was very sunny and sweltering but we enjoyed the process. We used to live in the city of Lipa and going to the farm in Batangas was such a change. Fresh air, fresh fruit, and fresh faces. When I went back this year in January, there were of course some changes as life itself is ephemeral. Having said that some things will always remain the same.
mangoes my cousins picked straight from the trees
cloudy? only for a while!
corns being dried
mmmmmm.... so fresh, so scrumptious! That's not my hand by the way ;-)
From east to west - a fragment of my provincial memory can now be seen in a historic farm in Shropshire, England. My poem is displayed at the Poetry Fence of Acton Scott. It is a project by the poet in residence, Jean Atkin. Read the beautiful poems tied along the Poetry Fence HERE and visit the historic farm HERE
And below, my dear readers, is my simple poem.