Some bad poetry

I just found this on my computer, written a few days before going home for christmas. Its derivative crap, but perhaps it gives some sense of the place.

And then it hits you
When the boda slows for crossing goats
And you look aside from the dust of the road
To see the moon hanging low and ponderous
Full-term
In splendid gold
Drowning the dying rays of sun
And even the flames of bush fire below
As proud in her finery -
As noble –
as the women gliding in prints
vibrant even through the haze
of dust and smoke
heads high under
Baskets of matoke
And the moon hangs low
Over bush fire
And banana trees
What world will she birth
In the days aheadWhat will come of her fecund beauty?