Legacy Of The Sugar Plantations

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.