The Heart Of The Burdekin

At the heart of the Burdekin in far north Queensland is a land of rich, dark soil,
with the Burdekin River Delta and an underground aquifer delivering abundant water that remains unspoiled.
A land where much heavier crops of sugar cane are grown,
by multi-generational farmers and their families who live on the land without complaint in a cyclone zone.

From bores, the water travels channels tilled across fertile laser-levelled fields that the farmer made.
As the green cane shoots are coaxed to grow and reach for the sky, they are all in a line, as if they were meant to be displayed.
A balance of fertiliser and the need for energy-filled sunshine, and water in the dead of night, blessed with sweet moonshine.

Farmers watch for the shoots to transform into thick stalks that turn from green to yellow, to brown at the bottom, and for a natural thinning at the top.
With the promise of a bountiful harvest, they crack the stout, jointed stalks open to taste the sweet, sugary juices on their tongue, confirming the readiness of their latest crop.
They embrace the rain and wind with gratitude and trepidation;
the chance to become a cyclone that wreaks havoc in a second is not a good situation.
The mayhem caused by blown-down cane is a cause for a farmer's disdain, and the farmer must wait for the water-logged cane to stand up again.

Before the harvest, the seasonal cane fires remove the trash of sugarcane tops and razor-sharp leaves.
Preparation starts before sunset, waiting on the winds, confirmed by a test they do by releasing dirt from the hand to indicate the direction of the breeze.
In pairs, positioned at the corner of the chosen field, a water tractor ready nearby, with burners ignited, they await with smiles,
on cue, they walk, one left and one right, adding flame to the cane at the bottom to start a fiery spectacle that lights up the fields for miles.

A slow crackle of leaves caught by flame catch from the bottom to the top and start to race along and within.
The crackles get louder, and orange, red, and white flames enrage, leaping meters in the air, a ferocity extremely intense, unbearably hot, and able to melt skin.
Hawks circle high above, their sharp eyes searching for bandicoots, rats, and snakes that vainly try to escape, fire thermals play havoc, thick black smoke chokes, a massive roar, the cane implodes, a caramelised sugar scent fills the air, Burdekin snow floats, a black ash that moves like feathers of different shape.

The morning stillness breaks and ash and dirt rise to the background diesel engine rhythmic sounds that march across the field,
designed to lift, scoop, top, and cut the cane, the harvester moves slowly so the farmer can believe its promise for this season's yield.
Broken cut stalks spill into the maws of metal cages on flat-bed trucks that cross load to journey by rail to the sugar cane mill.
In a few days, life stirs, and shoots grow in the ashen soil, a testament to the farmer's love of the land that will be fertilised and watered to await the next harvest with spirit and rehearsed skill.

A poem by Kathryn Carlisle

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