By John Grey
The job’s not done yet.
The fields must be burnt clear.
No patting sweaty backs
as the last truck rolls down the roadway.
Harvest is not the end.
So, in the last of sun,
the wicks are lit.
The sky glows sparkling gray
as flame moves in
on slithering snakes, scurrying rats,
crackling stalks and bagasse.
Through the crackle of fire,
men head to the pub.
The air’s a sugar high.