White tin men
of brazen courage
kneeled at the deep ravine of pain.
A crooked branch
snapped off a rotted tree,
buck shot was heard in the
distance.
All gathered grey knit cloaks
around their shoulders
and spat upon the ground.
It's done for, they muttered,
it's over for now,
Lee's surrendered
to Grant at Appomattox
Courthouse, the North has won.
There are no more
magnolia blossoms overhead,
no more hiss of fire
in summer's air.
Our women will fade into
the night, genteel mysteries
of mediocrity.
Now, there will be
some sort of freedom
and there will be song,
now that battle is done.
But trauma will remain
late into the centuries-
it will not cease.
Swallows carry this
bitter seed of war
throughout a clouded
sky.