Twenty thousand souls
swell beneath these waves
each whitecap is a headstone,
each billow is a grave.
With shoulders drenched by cannonballs
men fought to give you their name-
their names now lay beside sturgeon,
and spars that were charred by flame
their beards are tangled in milfoil
their eyes stare into green, and we
now praise your luster, your glimmer, your hills
without asking for your name.
We did not dream above your petrified whales,
while sawing trees and nailing ash to cross... Read more
TAGS:
creative writing,
poem,
quadricentennial