August is a blue haze of <br />ripened fields, <br />hurried over by swarming pickers <br />this year of plenty. The Rakers eye <br />profits with stiffened backs, <br />juice-stained hands their colour <br />of success, bodies browned by the sun. <br />They scoop in delight, white <br />and blue buckets filled <br />to overflowing- <br /> <br />In my return to this land I can <br />smell the burning fields and <br />see their scorched October attire. <br />Once a breezy sea of blue <br />fertilized by bumblebees, now <br />picked clean from summer marauders. <br /> <br />See the fire, the scent of <br />tortured fields. Renewal is a <br />flaming serenade supervised <br />by accountants, anxious <br />for this cash crop to return <br />in bountiful supply. <br />In the shadow of another season <br />winter's frost chases about.<br /><br />Richard Provencher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blueberry-picking-2/
