A startle of colour stabs through the canopy of the forest
below,
A flurry of wingbeats, marvelling the air
As the bright iridescent bird; a sudden shock of feathers
and flight
Sets sail above them.
They abandon their digging for a while, kneel and crane
their heads upwards
And watch as the bird departs,
Blessing the crop of bitter tubers beneath their feet.
It’s time for farmer families to gather food, to harvest
wheat and rice and root,
It’s time to sit around a fire, to kneel before a stone,
It’s time to grind the kernels of the gathered grain, to
store them up before the rain,
It’s time to cook, to boil and bake, to share a meal, to
give and take,
It’s time to learn how wild things grow, to know their
seasons;
When to reap and when to sow.
On upland soil where no trees grow,
Wild grasses wave in the ripple of the wind;
There in bleak summers when rain was scarce and deer and
bison refused to show,
When hunger gnawed at vein and bone, and children moaned and
cried to feed;
A green verdant blanket of barley, wheat and rye stood ready
with their seed.
And in the heat of a jungle, humid with the breath of the
earth,
Pestle and mortar are pounding away, the women rock, the
women sway
To the rhythm of their daily task:
The bowl of hip, the bowl of stone are scraped and scoured,
The taro pummelled to a paste,
The fire is lit, the bread is baked;
The village family rooted firmly in their village soil
Share the rich baked alchemy of their toil.
And the memory of the bird with wings outstretched,
Blessing the harvest as it ascends with a message
Into the wonder of the bright blue sky,
Is now a memory in a shaft of stone;
A celebration in a practical object,
A magical omen hatched in a human brain.
And with sturdy phallic sureness, its pounding message of
plenty,
Its message of rain and fruitful harvests,
Its message of fertile hopefulness
Is transforming Earth’s green gift into food.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/ahistoryoftheworld/objects/xQBDvzBRSrqVQYQ5ECaZwA
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