Category Archives: Woodland Prose

Song of Autumn in the Ozarks

Readers of Folkpotpourri know well enough how the autumn affects this writer, so kick back and enjoy (hopefully) some seasonal thoughts from the late October Ozarks.

As new dawn ripens grey through rain-soaked autumnal branches sway silently within great oaken copses, brown acorns fly across ocher carpets of fallen leaves, carried by determined squirrels to hiding places in secretive locations known only to them. The irascible crow speaks in his ebony tongue of approaching winds with icy fingers in the offing. Grey, solemn fog blankets the hollow, weaving shrouds of stories told in northern climes among the innocence of greenery yet upon watchful oak trees. Branches and boughs who have yet to be warned of the seasonal evolution, thus still cloaked in summer apparel are taken aback at the tall hickories who have indeed heard the rumor of autumn and now speak in extravagant golden verses of their own. Indeed, the oaks are still green, but whispers can now be heard among their great boughs of an imminent change in the air – of brown and copper gilded leaves among their kind.

The loudest dirges of the forest of late are black gum trees who once more don their extravagant scarlet dress and sing crimson dirges of colder times to come. Poison ivy vines clinging tightly to the yet verdant white oak trees and harmonize with the ornate gum in their own composition of color of autumn song. The dry streambed of the placid south hollow begins now to come dampened with ever searching raindrops, soon to be murmuring her much practiced and timely addition to the cacophony of this year’s ringing symphony of fall.

A blackberry stalk with withered leaves stands sadly along the trail, despondent at the approach of another autumn and showing copper and red colors of his plight upon the carpet of fallen grasses. His task now will be to keep his composure and endure until warmer days of bees and flowers when he can make his own blossoms. Ragged remnants of spider webs whose creators have now retired into dark shelters of fallen decay, undulate and glisten with clinging moisture from the incessant grim fog.

The blue jay can be heard now offering his gratitude for abundant juniper berries as he flits from branch to branch; tiny chickadees crowd among dancing ocher grasses and shrubs seeking minute morsels of seed. Thistles stand in overgrown fields holding court and waving darkened leaves while singing in the wet breeze – a song heard mostly by the goldfinches and indigo buntings, who crowd among them and harken to their oratory for which they find reward of sustenance. The Creator once more provides for all.

On this foggy, silent morning of grey, which creeps among the cattails and willow boughs, and betides the arrival of a new season of cold and damp, hummingbirds have left for more amenable climes. The red bird has chosen, as always, to remain among the trees and shrubs and continue their songs. They know this world needs their music through the cold season ahead. All of God’s creatures have made their choices of how they will endure – many will not, but when spring returns, there will be new ones to take their places.

Happy Autumn y’all and keep yourselves warm.

God bless all.

MK

In Anticipation of Wondrous New Autumn Colors

(We’re not there yet, so pics in this post are from past autumns, in order to show why the anxiety…)

As early September sumac comes crimson gilded, as great flocks of snow geese anxiously ponder mild climes of distant Cajun wetlands whence to introduce another year’s eager hatchlings, soft northern breezes waft among great and somber platoons of red oak, still clad in summer wear. All flora of Ozark woodland doubtless consider for the moment their abundant wardrobes for another autumnal gala, yet to be determined amongst myriad compositions of scarlet, golden, and copper. The black gum tree, always one of the most impatient to don her maroon autumn apparel, shudder in anticipation of icier winds. Rivulets of deep green lichen silently flow over and among powdery, arid rocks of long-desiccated creek beds which themselves patiently await expected rains of amber October and beyond.

Gentle droughts of unfamiliar coolness now drift in determined command of late summer leaden skies, soon to be the order of the day throughout watchful hillsides. Fewer birdsongs of yesterday’s flowery summer are to be heard now. On a lovely poem of lazy winding roadside, verses of mottled burgundy sumac are punctuated by new traces of goldenrod gently swaying on fresh north wind pouring gently into and onto a blissful landscape, joyfully abiding the frequent darts of wrens and nuthatches into their serenity.

At no other time in the life of man has the Creator taken greater opportunity to reveal to His creation the very essence of His Majesty than in the orchestrated chaos of the woodland autumn. Under ever variegated greys in the strata of September heavens, He soon will begin once more to adorn this magnificent world of hickory and oaken hills with hues that only can be drawn from His incomparable pallete, and this for the earthy delight of His created, be they feathered or furred, but most especially for mankind to whom He assigned stewardship of it all. Blessed indeed is he to whom God has given an eye to duly appreciate and delight in the beauty of this serendipitous spectacle of color and an ear to hear the late summer woodland dirges of cicada or perhaps a joyous conversation between a monogamous cardinal and spouse now finished with their burdensome task of attending raspy fledglings.

A dwindling few apples stubbornly cling to summer trees tempting young raccoons on damp and cool nights to gorge in late summer feasts. Oaks of varied kinds have produced this year’s acorn crop, a pursuit no doubt appreciated by the soon to be engaged whitetail deer. Antlers soon will be burdened with sagging velvet in various stages of riddance. Anxious squirrels navigate fallen trees and carpets of last year’s leaves searching out or excavating satisfactory caches for abundant hickory nuts and acorns. Hawthorn berries are coming ripe in ebony tones on shrubs among the undergrowth and persimmons have already embarked on journeys of color transition from summer green to wrinkled destinations of pumpkin orange. Dogwoods, as always, are already ahead of other flora in this perennial race into fall colors, sporting loud coppery foliage interspersed with bright red berries.

The excitement of autumn’s approach grows perceptibly through the woodlands as a sword of lengthening shadows stab into the burdened heart of September as though it were a great dam futilely straining to hold back a soon to be torrent of roaring colors, but all who anticipate the resplendent deluge to come, though wholly imperceptible for now, understand it’s effort is to no avail. Fall will assuredly arrive, absent the Lord’s return – and we will once more revel in the ecstatic glory of her beauty. For now, we must endure with such patience as we can muster, another endless, peaceful September sunset hopelessly clinging to silent green hills.

Enjoy this autumn – the way things are going, our old world might not see many more.

MK

Disheartened Soldier from Another Time

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I was walking in the wood late in evening, enjoying wild birdsong and dining on a delicious landscape of somber hardwood seasoned with a dash of savory ice on branches now long bereft of rattling leaves, and as I approached a stream of hard and silent water, there boldly came an apparition upon my reverie. It was an ageless man of whom I felt no dread, yet anticipation of his purpose consumed any thought I might entertain to ignore or depart from him.

It was plain from his dress and demeanor that he was a soldier, adorned in a crisp blue long coat with the boldest of black threefold hats. His trousers were of white cotton and bore no scratch or mark of his trek in the wood, nor were any brass buttons missing from his breast. Perplexion was fixed upon his countenance as he stared at me and in his presence, strange thoughts of shame of long-endured passivity weighed heavily on my bearing. “From whence”, said he, “do ye hail, who so casually tread this wood? Is it not the same land upon which I, among thine forbears and fathers shed my blood to provide thee with a sacred and free republic?”

Fright, not at his presence, but at his seeming insistence for answer, overwhelmed my heart as I could but stammer words that might be interpreted that, indeed, this was a continuum of that hallowed land. As I stood in awe of such bewilderment as he displayed, it came to me that he wept silently as he spoke words which pierced my heart with arrows from a former time, a time when this nation was but in it’s youth. “Doth not the same God redeem thy souls, is not the Savior of man the same in this day as He of long ago? Hast thy people forgotten the valor with which we of hope and incredible vigor and relying on Providence braved deadly volleys of rank musket and cannon balls to gain thy sovereignty and prosperity? How then, has an evil enemy so stealthily crept upon, and forsooth, overtaken this nation today?”

“This is a place beyond that land which you secured,” at last spake I, “As years passed, lesser men of lesser heart appeared, gained status endowed of evil by mammon, and came tempted, as knowledge of vast tracts beyond the nation you knew, came about, by great deceit and dishonor, to wrest from rightful owners the abundant and fruitful lands beyond that which your army secured.” As my confidence waxed, I continued, “He of Providence was denied, yet might of weapons from whence malicious heat from the forges of Satan’s armouries had not yet dissipated, were put to use to diminish, to defeat and yea, to slay those by whom fair title was claimed.”

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“As scores of years became centuries, all but the Creator forgot the wicked abrogation of treaties once foreordained to be honored as leaders continued in moral decline, and colonial appropriation of lands and nations increased the world over, but especially in his nation – descendants of those peoples with whom your leaders treated were slain and imprisoned and vanished into memory. Indeed, the banner under which your drums sounded amid the blue-white smoke of cannon is changed now, by many added insignias to that number of thirteen by which your blood gained liberty.

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“Must thee and thy progeny, therefore, be thus accursed as to receive upon thyself such waxing theft and murder as this which ye bear witness and yet lift not thy hand to resist? In mine years, would neither citizen nor soldier deign approach the Almighty Creator for prayer belabored with such cowardice weighed upon his conscience. And now in another place ye witness again the theft of lands and slaughter of rightful owners and say nought for fear.”

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“I shall now return whence I have dwelt nigh four and a half hundreds of years and once more watch, share tears with those with whom I served, for my own blood and that of my companions, forbears of yesteryear, that ye should so lightly and cowardly abandon, yea and forsake, the sovereignty of this land for which we fought and died. Farewell, yet still pray thee for thy long-ignored want of Providence.” As his last words sadly reached my ears, he began to walk away as he cried now aloud, slowly and completely evaporated into the woodland, but his wailing cries echoed, and if one listens, especially on days when those who purport to lead us slavishly perform acts of obeisance to – and among – our enemies, his piteous cries can still be heard.

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MK

Anticipating the Ozark Autumn World

Little stream not far from our farm

This is the time of year that readers of folkpotpourri know to expect the psychological disorder which I call OCPA, obsessive, compulsive prose of autumn, to overtake this writer again. By now y’all know autumn’s my favorite time of the year, so far surpassing other seasons that it would be unfair to even compare them. I understand that I’d be hard-pressed to render a tribute with even a modicum of word smithery, but this is a free website after all, and everyone knows you get what you pay for, so just indulge me. Besides today is the last day of summer, so it’s technically not fall yet – things are just getting warmed up (to cool down). Anyways, we need something peaceful to think about with all the bad things going on in the world. Here goes:

Random early dogwood leaf

Fallow hickory breezes blow through silent dales as the Celestial palette again waxes encumbered neath thickening shades of pastel grown prepared to cloak brooding gum trees now grown weary of their verdant apparel of yesterday’s springtime blessing. Blissfully now the normally irascible crow cheers this scintillation of the whispered taste of autumn being offered, generous harbinger of the temperate weeks of summer’s wan from haze and endless days of imposing heat. As fall expires, however, this same cantankerous bird will be among the loudest of those carping of the cold.

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Waiting for spring

Great white oaks undulate in joyful dance upon azure heavens as they beckon a north wind to bring forth splendid new autumn attire, eager to don whichever hue the Master has granted for what surely will become another fete of autumnal majesty, held but for another day, another week perhaps, but soon, nevertheless. The dogwood has already begun to loudly emerge from the sylvan dressing chamber, cloaked in another gown of magnificent copper and abundantly bespecled with crowds of bright red berries clinging to her laden branches.

Late summer dogwood getting changed – not quite dressed yet but beautiful nonetheless

Such is their eagerness to display this year’s boisterous scarlet, poison ivy wends among hickory tops, singing loudly their familiar, red-shaded aria to herald fall’s arrival. As his leaves become gilded with a tint of gold that only the Master artist could produce, the hickory patiently and silently awaits his turn to sing his fallow song – and sing he will, but anon as crisp wind flies upon the hills. Soon icy fingers shall grasp tender green branches intent upon splashing autumn colors on all.

These are from last year – scenes like this aren’t here just yet.

Halls of indescribable splendor will soon grace somber hills of misty silence, all decorated by the same Master whose unmatched attention to beauty and peaceful serenity of a perfectly decorated hillside compasses this sylvan world. The gaudy black gum and sumac are the appetizer, sufficient themselves to sate any hunger for magnificence, yet they only tantalize – fallow hickory and shades of red and rust of stately oaks, and the highly prized yellow and pastel orange of the maple are the main course. Thank God for the beauty He has bestowed upon us!

Maples adding their touches of color to the painting

He created this excellent world of color for our eyes to enjoy – then he created our eyes such that we can enjoy it!

Spring fed pond with late summer wildflowers

Enjoy autumn as y’all are able to get out, and may God bless all.

MK

Rotting Forest of a Decaying Empire

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Does the great oak stand silent beside a glade of verdant solitude, still and vigilant, recalling in her solemn boughs a merriment long stilled? Has dwelt here children of sojourners among woodland and meadow creatures at play in swathes of damp clover mindless of care and interested in but gaiety, frolicking through dusky haze as fireflies are wont, yet mindless of gathering darkness, of impending arrival of sightless, senseless creatures brought forth from bitter times and dungeons of riot?

Under those oaken boughs and purchased with song of promise, yet unfulfilled and in great need a host of burdened and humble yet proud villages gaze from their dwellings in misplaced admiration of a nation long regarded to revel in prosperity, yet that hope of plenty dwells no longer upon this glade. Songbirds long taken to wing perch today here but in memory, woodland creatures indeed ceased wandering these environs and nurturing their young to thrive in forests of Provident abundance. A brooding stillness lies unperturbed over noisome fens long polluted by consummate and malevolent greed burning this forest, yet still the distant beggar desires his name, a mailbox here to grace, though it stand forlorn on some sad avenue of depredation where brambles and vines consume all.

From soiled places afar her light, once deemed with glorious with blazing allure, beckoned visitors, sang of virtue and pleasantries to delight the heart, has come feeble, no more than the flicker of a candle struggling for life in an incessant whirlwind of malice. The memorial lady, once who stood bravely with torch held high though long having ceased to burn, sadly gazes over ocean paths no longer plied by ships brimming with expectant hordes of strangers of strange tongues anxious to plow in new fields. Her feet now decay in mire as she feebly tries to warn away the few hopeful travelers who would seek refuge in her bosom.

Her cities, once proud and vibrant testaments to her abundance, are diminished, become dark and malodorous canyons where grotesquely deformed and mindless denizens awkwardly grope at unseen objects – objects only present in caverns which ever reveal infinite strangeness which only those destitute eyes perceive. They wander eternally through their own forests of calamity, seeking nothing, pondering nothing. High above, in sunlit arcades of the forest canopy, dwell lesser creatures, those who harvested the timber and created this bleakness, those who suppose themselves to be guardians.

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As a dark wind approaches with the storm that will wash clean this sick, demented forest of empire, by now completely bereft of safe harbor to any, we bid farewell condolence to efforts of greater men who first sowed in her woodland. If trees are to become verdant, however, and boughs once again shall dance upon innocent summer breezes, those who love her memory – her inhabitants – must replant.

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MK

Sometimes Nature is Better Left Alone

The goldfinches are putting on a show this spring. It’s wonderful to see the little guys out flitting about like they used to do when we first moved here.

When I came to the Ozarks, it had been a very long time since I had lived out in the country. I probably didn’t learn enough about how rural life worked, nor about nature and God’s creation, so I made a lot of hasty moves that cost me the enjoyment of watching lots of birds and woodland critters. There was a swampy area behind my house that really wasn’t good for anything, or so I thought, so I set out to clear the cat tails, berry vines, and willow saplings, hoping I could put the area to better use. We had an abundance of thistle plants all over the property, and I recruited my daughter to help me do war on them. There were big thickets of autumn olives, a “nuisance” shrub that I spent hours attacking with a machete. A person couldn’t walk through those jungles – they were a waste of property. Unless you enjoyed wild bird songs.

As I worked to make the farm more “livable”, I had no idea of the environmental importance of overgrown thickets and willow saplings. But sure enough, after a few years of my war on nature, I began to notice there were less and less indigo buntings, goldfinches, squirrels, and rabbits around. My farm was becoming sterile, and it took me a good while to understand that it was because of my determination to turn the land into a parking lot that things were becoming quiet here, at least as far as bird songs were concerned.

I started reading about some of the environmental issues around the place and began to realize that God knew what He was doing after all, when He set things in motion. Those autumn olive groves made perfect nesting sites for several species of birds and produced a little fruit in the fall for them and the deer to eat. I learned that the favorite food of the goldfinch is thistle seeds, which I had almost entirely cleared out. That old bog that had been a pond basin was still being fed water from a spring behind my house, and those willow trees and cattail and briar patches that had proliferated out there was perfect habitat for birds and countless other critters and beautiful wild flowers.

I noticed when I was clearing the marshy area that there was a delicious scent of mint out there, and lots of plants that grew little orange flowers – I later learned that this was jewel weed, reputed to be a good natural remedy for poison ivy and other skin ailments. Once when I walked out into the woods at another place wearing Bermuda shorts, I went through some nettle plants that stung my bare legs – bad! I’m a fairly tough old codger, but that pain was extremely uncomfortable, and remembering what I had read (and what my daughter had told me) about jewel weed, I started looking for some that I had previously seen nearby. I found it and picked some and crushed it up till it was a slimy mess and applied it to my burning legs. The pain was gone instantly! I have frozen jewelweed paste in my freezer now. And I have a healthy supply growing in my marsh, once a nuisance swampy area, now has become a nature preserve – right behind my house, snakes and all.

We call it “the fen”. If you have one on your property, you should keep it. Pond frogs make a pretty sound.

“A gift from God of inimitable beauty, the sigh of high grass of ochre glade in slow dance to the sweetest of a southern breeze of spring delight. Bouquets of dame’s rocket and wild mallow watch intently and from the dank, dark forest wends earthy, delicious scent of jasmine. How I absorb and thrall to such enormity of sylvan passion as do the pristine bluebirds regaling awing o’er a benevolent scape! What more I ask, dear one, shall heaven be?”

Happy springtime.

MK

A New Feast of Autumn

Okay, all of y’all who follow this site gotta know by now what to expect this time of the year, so without further ado, here goes:

Determined as one tends to become on sunlit afternoons of majestic October essence to experience peaceful rejuvenation of soul and spirit, these famished eyes set out today to relish an Ozark feast of dazzling color and give thanks and glory to the Creator for the grace that is undoubtedly bestowed upon our existence in these brooding autumn hills.  His perfection is on display here for all creation to behold, especially during early fall when gum trees emerge from sylvan dressing halls in gaudy scarlet as they join fallow and orange sassafras preparing for their roles in the celebration of this year’s festive autumnal potpourri.  

I shall pause here for a long, deep draught of brilliant, gilded hickory mingled to perfection with silent crimson sumac; assuredly a drink deserving of place in a celestial banquet such as has appeared before me, much to be savored and without brevity.  As I relish this event, a fleeting dark realization captures my thoughts – ere long, alas, villainous icy fingers of winter shall steal into this wondrous realm of color and as required in her annual pilferage, pluck the boughs of oak, hickory, and gum barren of hue, casting spidery shadows where autumnal glory does now abound.  Today’s walk under slow dancing towers of amber and pastel, nevertheless shall remain unencumbered with notions of tomorrow’s boreal malignity and instead ply with soul wholly enraptured this day’s intoxicating halls of splendor that only the skilled hand of the Creator can be imagined to lovingly endow of all these immaculate tints with His delicate brush.

Moss-darkened limestone escarpments gather along silent rims of the ravine to witness a symphony of windblown amber oatgrass whispering an autumn song played in chords known only to the gentle northern breeze.  Fallow shadows find their way down rocky winding creek beds, now long devoid of water and in undoubted reminisce of misty April days when their banks were full.  At this stage of the seasonal march, ochre leaves vie with desiccated limestone and agate rocks for places to rest and watch this autumn spectacle unfold.  Somewhere above – far above – swaying golden boughs, the Savior undoubtedly watches, indeed it is He who is directing to perfection the extravaganza.  

As I appreciatively devour my generous portion of the servings so graciously offered this day, a solitary traveler of honeyed oaken amber in final descent drifts aflutter onto the table before me.  Having selected a suitable resting place, perhaps yesterday, perhaps months ago as he held onto the branch that bore him, he chose this day to let go and lend his mote of sublime texture to what is becoming a lush carpet of autumn hue.  As he descends inexorably onto the earth, he silently waves farewell to the somber giant oak he came to know. Then he rests.

Where the Poor Go to Weep

Pray, beloved child, your prayer in sadness, silence and wonder for He patiently waits in silent and peaceful places where He watches for wholesomeness of heart, even – and especially – on somber mornings of clouded silence.  His gaze is ever upon your humility and compassion, for the blessing he desires to visit upon you is predicated on these.  Keep your own eyes to those fellow travelers endowed flush with righteous purpose and bestowed with wisdom; emulate such as you may be able and as your spirit allows. Surely the Creator will rest His mighty hand on your hope, for shipwrecked ever become ambitions elsewise, although it may seem not so for now.  With purity of heart, keep your sanctuary of solitude in His reach.  For it is but with purity of heart that we may behold Him.

Take shelter there and trust your tears go not unheeded, that your despondent mourn is indeed regarded by the Master, whose abundant presence ever awaits your return to that burning bush in your place of solitude.  Weep then, loudly if at all – fervently cry for mercy and for justice – for assuredly He gives pause to those hopeless, woeful echoes such as fill the heavenly censer.  As surely as the morning star arises from a pale dawn of twilight to beckon your spirit, encouragement such as may be rightfully and fruitfully gained from His compassion and wisdom shall blossom from the very despair you presently endure.  From eternity itself, incomprehensible peace shall indeed reveal to you His presence and the depths of His love.

Go then, to your fortress of solitude, that simple haven chosen by you among strewn leaves beneath oaken boughs where your tears as rivulet testimonials entreat His presence into your spirit to lift, to promise of eternal hope, eternal life, eternal love.  Consider always your burden as a blessing, through all awaiting sorrow and trepidation to which you must return from this sanctuary of tranquility ere you suffer the beastly conflict once more and with such steadfastness as you are gifted. You need not face it alone. Reap and gather courage here, then embrace it as you return to that life of need and poverty.  With passion, regard such destitution as His grace to you, for the wealthy ever deny themselves purity of faith.  Consider the patch on your garment as witness of travail you’ve endured in humble determination to remain faithful in the tempest. The wealthy cannot fathom a need of fortress against those merciless winds blowing covetousness and impurity upon the dark, endless paths they travel.  Such need is never regarded as they dwell within ornate decadence of realms unknown to you, but trust that unfamiliarity is for your benefit. They have no place to pray.  They have no place to weep.

Few souls among the multitudes of the uncompassionate whose hearts are laden with envy and desires of the flesh – sadly so few – shall ever come to know the blessing to be had spending time and tears of despondence in His presence.  Burdened with such pursuits of vanity as they carry, they deny themselves the incredible grace that awaits their presence in those humble silent places where Jesus Christ seeks to meet them!  To mend them. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.  Walk upright, holding the hem of His garment through each emerging shadow and understand that misfortune befalls every soul, therefore find that sacred place and avail yourself of an instance to pray.  And as need demands, to spend tears.

If the Almighty awaits our fellowship beneath forest boughs in a misty wood or within a secluded glen among rocks on a mountainside – a meeting place where thoughts and tears are spilled before Him, there go I.  If we must shun the allure of worldly lust and desire so that we may be comforted in such places where it is meet to tearfully implore the mercy and compassion of Jesus Christ, there go I.  If I might find that place where God abides awaiting the piteous cries of the needy and destitute so that there I too may be blessed – blessed indeed to be one with fellow sojourners in poverty and tears in the sanctity of His Holy Spirit – there, in poverty and purity of heart and by any means, go I.

Silent Anchorage – a Lonely Shipwreck

Forlorn she lies– alone but for bedraggled spirit of helmsman eternally clutching fast to rotting wheel, and ghosts of able-bodied crewmen drifting unseen across ancient deck planks now claimed by urchin and prawn. Upon her bed of ancient sand in silent darkness hence besieged by clutching barnacles and starfish with bonds of rueful memory bears she of daunting breaker, of ravaging gale, yea of merciless night without moon dared she ply an angry ocean darking and fearsome.  Sails became naught but billows of trepidation lashed onto masts of terror broken by courage abandoned in blackness of merciless winds come screaming on a night of terror and loss.  A sorrowful midnight of lightning did shew once a hellscape painted with black mountains of brine sent to rest her here, now rests she. 

No more laden of goods bound for ports afar, nor resourced with wherewithal to challenge that dark foe aweather, nor rests upon her further need.  The darkness and serenity concerns not with cargo for a distant port sought.  Merchants in harbors of yesterday grieved their loss.  Mothers that time ago grieved lost sons, bones forever bound in bucklers and lanyards, no more to carry smiles and embraces proudly down the fresh painted gangplank, alas, no more lamp lit nights spent in breathless stories of adventure in mysterious lands abroad.

Deep is the sand where feathers of rust claim fittings of iron in endless dark, silent the pulleys that once sang comforting melody to captain and crew.  Sea birds no longer watch from rail and crossarm for minnow or scrap of doughcake, nor do soar through unblemished marine sky with endless song of cheerful seabreeze and sunlight, no, forsooth; her fate became to languish henceforth and evermore among melancholy recollections and brooding creatures of profound darkness. Whether the sun smiles upon the world above or a fresh tempest sweeps new breakers across the sea, she no longer gives thought.  Her mission is never to be fulfilled, unless it be that of accompaniment to other hapless vessels laden with lost cargo and unfortunate souls who have in their turn found the briny path to that oblivion where resides a mysterious existence of odd fish and quiet damnation.

After the Battle; A Walk Beside Still Waters

Let your mind take you somewhere special. Maybe a place where tall oak trees gently and silently stroke a placid rivulet with shadows as a cool summer breeze whispers a symphony of blue serenity; of yesterday’s innocence come now but memory. Perhaps old soldiers and sailors consider, as is fitting, thoughts and former notions in this serene woodland of wisdom that yesterday’s briars and paths of tragic confusion were only obstacles to overcome; and at last, amid sylvan wonders of reverent and Godly peace, they have opportunity to reflect.

Indeed, the cannon yet speaks in a strange and morbid tongue little known to those of peaceful intent, yet many too, only yesterday were deceived to think they could comprehend a grievance offered, some beckoning, yet deceitful cause brought forth by those of no substance, so are all conflicts. As wild songbirds dart among greenery of an understanding wood, he watches, hears the songs, comes to see the futility as if it were a long-embarked sailing ship slowly emerged from a hazy ocean, the error of such deceit. Fields stained of darkening blood look to the azure heaven and cry, of sorrow and earnest no less than that of Abel, for justice, for truth, which a covenant has promised. It awaits an appointed time.

Convinced now of darkest betrayal, amid the rapacious clamor and echoes of another war, a grey cloud descends upon youthful hearts as at last, on wings of understanding they depart; yet those who send them, those who burden them with instruments of destruction, will not reconcile. Damn them! Green leaves are not meant to fall! The infernos of hell await and shall torment forever those of pernicious bearing on whom final judgement fall, who value not tears of mothers or children, nor precious blood spilled to purchase another hour of decadence.

A day will come for a great and wrathful wind sent forth to scour the land. Savagery of evil shall succumb to His judgement, and knees shall bend. Belated regret shall avail not the guilty. No, for that day, the glory of Him who came from heaven and stood in the form of man upon His creation among His brethren shall be revealed and require that the evil soul be denied forevermore a place with Him. Only on that day will the man of perdition realize the depth of his loss. He who seeks redemption, be it sought belatedly in some peaceful forest of old age, or in a forsaken trench filled with blood, tears, and agony – will find it.

A day of peace in the serenity of a wooded hillside, a day of meditation when the simple wonder of creation strikes the heart of the old warrior who has long-since repurposed his sword, shall reveal to him the futility of war and death and the inestimable value of that knowledge. He shall cry on that day for those not blessed to see it and wonder that destiny was shaped for him to seek a wooded solitude where he finds the heart to shed tears for those taken in youth.