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