Trampled under rubber boots of peasants wives and children,
crumpled metal, fibre glass, pressed the muddy field.
Wrenching out the deeply rooted sugar beet,
pale leaves draped each shiny surface like a shield.
Youths tore off large strips, left gaping holes,
drips from perforated beet blew through the grass tops.
Wrinkled plastic bags anchored in the ground,
by large stones thrown in mock attempt to show how it came down.
Purple stained fingers pulled hard on harvest beet,
poked cockpit glass for souvenirs of distant places.
Each prime curved edge sealed with titanium bolts,
cruel indifference set hard on the fault lines of their faces.
An old woman bent beneath layers of thick clothing,
body worn from working in the field she leases.
Pours plum brandy into plastic cups while dancing on the wreckage,
raising dust that slowly settles back among the pieces.
A tiny boy thrust among a small trees branches,
waved a wooden gun as if to emphasise,
words that could be heard across a rising plume,
“It spiralled round three times against a blazing moon.”
Now the field of beet pours out its cargo,
they will return by tiny paths that pass beneath their feet.
The trodden leaves will free themselves from cloying earth,
men will load the beet, farmers weigh the measure of its worth.