August is a blue haze of
hurried over by swarming pickers
this year of plenty. The Rakers eye
profits with stiffened backs,
juice-stained hands their colour
of success, bodies browned by the sun.
They scoop in delight, white
and blue buckets filled
In my return to this land I can
smell the burning fields and
see their scorched October attire.
Once a breezy sea of blue
fertilized by bumblebees, now
picked clean from summer marauders.
See the fire, the scent of
tortured fields. Renewal is a
flaming serenade supervised
by accountants, anxious
for this cash crop to return
in bountiful supply.
In the shadow of another season
winter's frost chases about.