Another day was dawning and the heat was on the rise.
The sun was slowly rising, into clear and cloudless skies.
The grass had long since vanished, from the dusty western plains.
The bush it was a crying, from the months of rainless days.
The stock were going hungry, there was no feed at all.
The dams where now all empty, as there had been no rain to fall.
The farmer was now desperate, as he looked towards the skies.
But on the far horizon, he could not believe his eyes.
He swore that he was seeing, things that could not be true,
For finally around the bend, the truck hove into view.
A truck with many trailers, laden high with hay.
For a tired drought weary farmer, it really made his day.
For he had heard the rumours, but he failed to believe,
That some ”Buy A Bale” hay, was at last his to receive.
He smiled a weary smile, something he’d not done for weeks.
For on this day, thanks to the hay, his stock could finally eat.
For finally beside him, the truck came to a halt.
The sight that lay before him, gave his aching heart a jolt.
The wrapped up bales of silage, stacked neatly on the truck,
84 bales of sorghum, he couldn’t believe his luck.
The bales where all unloaded, and stacked upon the ground.
The truckie gave a parting wave, as he headed off to town.
The farmer sat in awe, his mind in disbelief!,
At the generosity of strangers, that he would never meet.
But he would be most grateful, of this kindness to receive,
And the stock will soon be happy, as they can have a feed.
His eyes, they had some moisture, as he loaded up some hay,
To feed his hungry cattle, on this auspicious day.
He loaded up the clapped out truck, and headed down the track,
Thinking of the kindness he had loaded on the back.
The cattle where all waiting, as he pulled up to a stop.
The sheep where also circling, as the bales began to drop.
The stock where keenly eating, as he scattered round the hay,
It will help keep them going, to the coming of the rains.
He rolled out one more bale, as the stock swarmed around his feet,
They ate with vim and vigour, of the feed so moist and sweet.
As he drove back to the homestead, the farmer had a thought,
That now that there was feed for stock, a day off could be sought.
He could fix the pump, or grease the mill or maybe pull the bore!
He could take his good wife shopping! Or take the kids to sport!
For he knew the hay would soon be fed, and there would be no more,
For then it’s back to cutting mulga, with his trusty old chainsaw.
But while he had some hay to feed, he could take a break,
And catch up on those other jobs, that long have had to wait.
Or spend some time with family, or maybe catch a fish!
Or tidy up the workshop, or grant his wife a wish.
For while the sainted hay, will only last at most a week,
At least it brings him comfort, and a pile of great relief!
For the knowledge that there’s people, who understand his plight,
Will lift him from his pit of woe, and help him sleep at night.
Will help him understand, that humanity is not lost,
That there are those out there, who will help him bear his cross.
It’s not about the hay, or the trucks loaded with feed,
But standing by a farmer, in his hour of need.
For the gift is more than stockfeed, the gift you give is hope,
To stand behind a farmer, when he needs help to cope.
When the grass it has returned, to the verdant western plains,
When the stock they are content, as they forage and they graze.
When the farmer thinks with kindness, back to that grateful day,
When in his pit of deep despair, the saints had come with hay.