By Joy Sigaud

From the lush groves of cane

Standing in majestic rows under vivid blue sky

Tall green grasslike feathered poles

The juice is sweet,

Who would ask for sweeter

Who could ask for more.

That sweet tooth is with us still today.

They, the plundered, chop chop chop in season with their machetes

Granny is still chopping as her foreparents did

In centuries gone by.

Today there is little more cane to chop

They, the labourers, plucked from Africa to plunder new lands

Their reward

Misery, enslavement.

They have no knowledge of the economics of the plunder

They just hoe, plant and chop whilst

In England ladies sip tea in fine china cups

All plundered from the East.

Plantations awash in the West Indies provide sugar for the abundant array of cakes,

Gluttony has its finest hour.

Granny has a beautiful house set high on a hill

Spectacular views of lush green flora stretch out over the landscape

Until it meets the yonder sea

Yet, every morning granny goes to an abandoned

Part of the garden machete in hand, to

Chop Chop Chop.

Ask her why

No discernible answer at the ready,

At least not one that makes sense to the curious giggling mind.

The helpers are in the kitchen preparing breakfast

The grandchildren and great grandchildren rise

And mull around the pool and verandahs

Their bodies adapting to the dewy new morn.

Then, granny emerges from a remote part of the grounds

Machete still in hand

A bemusing and peculiar site at best

The legacy of a sinister long forgotten past at worst.

I guess, she has done her little exercise for the day.

Chop Chop Chop.