Fish Farm

[Gerry]

The huge circles out on the lough
The fleet of tiny boats scurry in and out
The sacks of feed loading them down
The farmers wearing their luminous suits
They scatter the feed across the surface
The silver surface slashed by salmon
Thousands of steaks grown each day

Beneath the pens what do we see
Below the waves and bountiful sea
Blank bare and boring bed
Buried in tons of waste from the pens above
Blinded by the financial gain
Better to know the true cost of what we eat

By Gerry Temple