Kent Hop Pickers

In fields where the hop vines twine and stretch,
Kent’s hop pickers toil, their stories etched
In summer’s sun and autumn’s breeze,
Amidst the rows of emerald seas.

With baskets strapped and laughter shared,
They rise with dawn, their hearts prepared
To pluck the hops with seasoned hands,
A harvest bound for distant lands.

Children’s giggles, a songbird’s trill,
Echo through the morning still.
Families gather, year by year,
Their bonds made strong through work and cheer.

The scent of hops, so fresh and bright,
Fills the air from morn to night.
Sun-kissed faces, calloused palms,
Find in toil a kind of calm.

And as the twilight shades the field,
The day’s rich bounty is revealed.
Kent’s hop pickers, in humble grace,
Leave behind a verdant trace.

For in each hop, a story told,
Of lives entwined in green and gold,
Of days spent under open skies,
Where labour’s sweat and joy arise.