The Daily Post prompt is: Feast.
Feast and famine, we live,
the great cycles of life and death,
the yearly dearth when reserves run out
because the summer was wet,
the winter precocious,
or the spring is late.
Those blustery springs
when, the crops not ripe,
we watch the shoots with empty bellies
and avid eyes.
Cold sun and rain on rain,
and the bones arch across childish chests
In the big house, the lords and ladies,
the bishop and his priests,
are fat and greasy with mutton and beef.
So it was, and so it is still.
We wait for the grain to swell,
the turnips and the chestnuts,
envying the grass grazers, the beasts.
While in the short spring twilight,
shaking off the winter cold,
the fox follows the mice,
lingering in the warming sun,
and makes a royal feast.