Winter of the Tobacco Farm
Short snow- icing covered walks down slippery tree lined lane,
brings feelings of cosy farm Christmases past,
back to mind, with horse drawn sleigh rides, to
inspect the neighbouring parties.
It's snow everywhere, on branches and roofs,
tobacco kilns, and road that gives everything
that icy, crisp edge. Somewhere, in that festive spirit,
there's unknowns and unknowables to find
The tobacco kilns stand empty now,
dry, dusty, with faint dried tobacco smells,
left from last year's harvest.
Waiting, for the new year, and
perhaps never again another tobacco crop.
No more need for cigarettes or pipe tobacco
from this area, anyway. Everyone's switching to
Ginseng, or going out of the business.
Sand can't exactly produce a large variety
of crops they say. Just peanuts, ginseng,
So we're going out of farming.
Off the land.
Our last Christmas on the farm.
Unless, someone discovers the unknown, or
antidote to tobacco farming.
Writing by Regina Stemberger