My Fergie

He's a classic,
Massey Ferguson 35 X,
He is his original red,
But that doesn't make him racy.
He putts along at a walking pace,
As I slash the tussocks.
I am in low range,
Because the tussocks and cutty-grass are thick.
He can still give me a start when he picks up speed downhills.
Or if one of his big wheels,
Suddenly discovers a wombat hole.
Despite his loud hoarse monotone.
I find riding him,
In slowly diminishing circles,
Almost meditative.
Getting the PTO into gear is a feat of agility.
I use the wrong foot to double clutch,
So the other is free,
To whack the lever, grinding, into position.
Of beings mechanically inanimate,
I have a precarious relationship.
Which means I am a poor driver.
I find the throttle, slasher raising, gear changing and braking,
Sometimes beyond my motor planning.
But as I disengage the PTO,
Lower the slasher and pull on the brake.
I feel a real sense of achievement.
That we have survived another excursion together.

Turfer

It's a wonderful tool,
Won't use any fuel.
Just power of arm,
A must on the farm.
If you're stuck in a bog,
Just chock with a log.
Find a big tree,
And soon you'll be free.
A sling and a chain,
To take the strain.
Attach to the chassis,
Make sure it won't come free.
Put it in gear,
And pump without fear.
The turfer may be,
Older technology.
Despite all its quirks,
A turfer...
Just works.

It's Raining

It's raining it's pouring,
My three 'piggies' are snoring.
Too well fed,
And slumbering in their bed.
Their feed could have waited till morning.
The cow's in the milk bail
And the calf is too.
How to separate them?
Shoo calf shoo!
She looks so pathetic
Coat streaming with wet.
And I've still the dogs,
To let off for a run yet!
Rain Rain go away.
Please come again another day.

When I don't have to feed, untie or separate the animals.