There is no salvation     for the dirty deeds
of plunder     treachery     & greed. The land's
not ours     nor worthy of its smallest seeds
are we. The blood is on our hands.

Still     a fleeting gypsy blessing might redeem
innocent children from the general's curse
& serve as model toward     a better scheme
for our rude ways &     late benighted manners:

I'm thinking of (once more)     one hearty pioneer
whose bark's capacious sail,     so purposeful
set free the civitas--shrouded     his clear-
eyed friend     Canonicus     in his best-woven shawl--

& closed     those regal lamps     that spied his own--
escorting him     with eagle feathers     to his town.

Henry Gould | Island Road 97
Contents | Mudlark No. 6