Burning Potato Stalks Poem by Matt Mooney

Deep green barely seen
potato shoots coming up
in little firm bunches
thrilling from the clay
promising good times
in stepped out rows
headland to headland.

Growing up before me
in the land of summer,
the straight stalks flower
in daisy white blossoms
tinged with purple.
Time to spray they say
for blight, a deadly enemy.

Digging time is looming
sometime in October
then the picking, carting
and pitting for the winter.

Lying along erased drills
the stalks wilt, fit to burn
in Indian summer time.
We gather them with forks,
my father and myself,
on a hillside tillage field
tilted towards the light
from the sun sinking low
on its way to Galway Bay.
We used it as our timepiece
and weather vane as well
when we raised our heads
days 'down in the garden'.

Piled up lit and burned off,
leaving an undying flame
within me in his memory,
bonfires of withered stalks.
Smoke like incense spirals
for a healthy crop given,
crackling and consuming.
Smells that rock the senses.