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Poem

In a meadow lush and green,
by a lake grand as a sea,
there once was a lonely house
small and brown.

Inside it someone would wait
for a man who went away,
a man who was long ago
in the ground.

It was here the two would meet
and exchange words tenderly,
until the day he went off
to fight Rebs.

The first months the letters came,
after that she’d wait in vain,
folks on that lake all said that
he was dead.

But no body was returned,
so the young woman held firm,
and would not leave that place on
Champlain’s shore.

So she built a rugged shack,
every nicety she lacked,
and she would not leave the spot
ever more.

None could make her see the sense,
and she kept that hovel hence,
folks would bring her food so
she’d not starve.

She’d spend hours on the sand,
waiting for her missing man,
with an empty stare that made
folks alarmed.

They would leave her their alone,
and go home and hug their own,
thanking God that they knew naught
such hard tears.

As the decades rolled on past,
and trees grew up through the grass,
her hair and face were weathered
by the years.

Then one bright morning in May
a young girl did pass that way,
saw two people dancing she
did not know.

They were young and full of life,
dressed like a new man and wife,
in a sprint to the village
she did go.

When the elders all came out,
the stench there left them no doubt,
the woman had been dead for at
least a week.

Then just buried her outside,
they all shook their heads and sighed,
no one remained to even
stand and speak.

The hovel was quickly burned,
into memory it turned,
but folks still see two souls dance
by the lake.

Perhaps it’s a trick of light,
or things finally are right,
and God has seen to fix a
great mistake.

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