No miracle needed

Like a yellow blanket,
The size of a small nation,
The wheat field gleams in the sunlight,
Waiting for the crowning hum of harvest
With purring pleasure.
Thick and strong, the ripe ears
Breathe the soil in the triumph.
The farmer stands on a gatepost
And, shading his eyes against the reflected glare,
Smiles.

From Newfoundland to Norway,
Squat trawlers winch in groaning nets,
Setting down their struggling catch,
A writhing mass that slithers and slides
Before the hold is battened down.
The skipper taps his pipe and re-lights.

Five million loaves and two million fish
And still the people at the back go hungry.