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