New Market
This is karst country
New Market is a mountaintop
She sits on a limestone hill
And sloping down to a sudden drop
We come to Middle Quarters still
As water in the bulrush
On the wide chest of a broad Black River
Climb the hill again with me
And sit on a table of memory.
***
It was the time when May rains came
Unabated in slow drizzle night and day
The way it had for years before, same
It would again, anew to this very day
But when May turned to June that year
The water rose from earth's deep core
Made itself a lake on the flat hilltop there
And swell and swell like never before.
First it rose to a man's knee, and goats
And all cattle were moved to higher place
And then up the waist, and only boats
Were able to sit upon the water's face
And move the people from their homes
Ancient buildings from the colonial past
Soon covered, for only wind then roams
The wet desert of fear, the lake filled fast.
Then the news was spread abroad, alarm
Struck dread on man's rugged confidence
And experts and scientists did there swarm
Without explanation, just dread evidence
Of a mystery, a whole community burried
In a week's calamity, and still there stood
High waters, piled skywards, and unhurried
To unveil a cause any could learn or understood
The water on the hill did not flow down, wet
And deep it covered the town, and dark
And brooding, more waters than any rain let
The trees withered, and silent each lark
The omen in all sermons soon was told
Many trembled searching for their hidden sins
Others dug memory for curses of old
And I was empty, learning no fable then spins.
We are desolate without the wisdom of God
Still, for New Market is not explained to today
Nor where did the water go in the rocky sod
People returned, build again, time fades things away
The town returned after almost a year, and life
Went on as before. But I cannot forget, and still
Long to know. Myths and fables are rife
But nothing holds, I am sodden with horror still.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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