Burning   Massimo translating my burning off poem for the Italians mimed expressively a few twigs added to the fire—ah no. Bloody great windrows raging but if you have never seen them you have never seen them so I don’t get into it there and then—   What I never said I will say now—Matthew would fetch matches and, with a nod at me over the children’s heads, the hoe—for the creatures who had taken up residence in the rows as they seasoned, who would run from the fire too desperately late—   —once—   Quick!—I shouted at him as…