The Watcher

The Watcher The Watcher When the seventeen men neared the end of the bridge only one remained in sight all the others were lost in the shadow from the moonlight. He was dressed in tattered cloth; homespun gray, and eaten by the moth of strang decay “No livery”, He cried “no making strides in death” “my life has ended on this bridge?” There is a plaque in place to mark this day it says on The Plaque Friday June 13, 1864 PFC Dreardon Age 14 was marking time in a prisoner exchange at BENTON creek when he was shot by Federal Forces. The miniball penetrated his left sleeve and took off his arm. He bled to death. His body was torn and bleeding so forlorn the tatters of his homespun sleeve stayed hung upon his stump of arm there. War is something no one cares for Mr. Sherman. MOFW 1964, June 13 Commerative The watcher was on the water making footprints on the surface when the Federal Forces under Sherwood marched into the History. He seldom interferes with history but makes the markers seem to be the truth. He saw the miniball tear off the soldiers sleeve the man had been a prisoner just released this crime is not unpunished the man that pulled the trigger is lying in the river at the Watchers feet. The Watcher broke his prime directive and almost gleefully erected the YANKEE soldier in the mud. A Watcher is no more A Watcher for when he acted he lost his power over water and he stands upon the battlements no longer but He is tearless in his vigil of the bridge. Every Friday on the 13th of the Month of JUNE of every year that has its ending in a FOUR, he gives a shudder of relief certain that his judgment has not been ignored. The rebel soldier gives a rebel yell and leaves the bridge. The Yankee minion that has shot him just turns over once and lies back in the mud. For this is judgment. The Watcher roars.