God's acre

God's Acre In a field, not far from here, I see millions of lit candles  But only at night, during the day, it is a potato patch A man, you can call him God if you like, walks along  The candles and, every so often, snubs out with his thumb and index finger, a lit candle, with fingers sore from this arduous work He is heading for the part of the field where The candle wax has burnt out, but the wick flickers like grey smoke in still air When dawn appears on the eastern mountain The field turns into a potato patch Where a man is harvesting spuds