Bu Ken [There is Nothing, I Dislike]

It happened this way, not so very far,
From the once flooded, mountain slopes of snow-capped Ararat,
You approach the eco-farm, through blasted agro-badlands,
Past exhausted state-farm, each factory with shattered windows.

Soon after independence, three hundred thousand small plots of land,
Were handed back, to the rural people of Armenia,
And from a distance, you could not mistake the fact,
That something interesting was happening, now orchard trees were growing.

This was the dry land, the dying light of day,
Where two trickster people came to fish, the ribs of each were sharp.

The traveller crew sat around the picnic table, patient in the heat,
There were cold foods from this very farm, kinds of cheese and sour cream,
Diced root and cooked fish, stoned apricots in bowls,
Before them was the transformed place, this oasis in the wasteland.

Here was the taste of freedom, for they had chosen to plant rows of trees,
Corn and legumes grown together, spicy greens in the sandy salty soil,
There were frogs calling in the grass, songbirds on the branches,
And two concrete pools filled with water, they seethed with types of trout.

Wait spoke the farmer, for you may not have the faith in hopeful things,
How the world, might yet unfold and open up,
As does the pale forget-me-not, so all was quiet,
There was a flash of russet, a flying pair of crested hoopoe.

Two red foxes strolled on stage, gliding through the grass,
Their tails were held up high, white-tipped between the trees,
Each settled back on haunches, lingered in the dusk,
They looked towards the people, the man called across a quiet yes.

The fisher foxes turned, one dipped his tail into the water,
The vixen did the same, the fish fought and snapped,
Snap snap again, they bit each tail,
And the foxes flipped the fish up high, two fell upon the grass.

The foxes spun, each carried in their mouth a fish away,
Each dusk the same ritual, and from the cathedral of Etchmiadzin,
The ancient bells pealed, and so the men and women of the farm,
They grinned once more, and settled silence came upon the land.

Jules Pretty

Bu Ken [There is Nothing, I Dislike]