McPherson Woods percussed with shot.
Fire was drawn from either side.
Willoughby Run had turned to blood,
a 'no-man's land', a suicide.
The Black Hats poured what lead they had
into the dropping southern sons
and died themselves, their rifles hot.
Death-shock upon their stricken mien,
amazement
toward the skies
of Pennsylvania.
Cacaphony
in blistered air
carried through the smoke and smell
to the ears of one who heard,
a veteran of 1812.
John Burns, a man three score and ten
strode the gore and choking grim
dressed in black and swallowtail
musket gripped,
his mind
hell-bent on murder.
Three Rebels he cut down that day
and three wounds
suffered gladly by the one
who came to vent a rage
at all the war might take away.
He had no feeling for the town,
he'd trod through life a misanthrope
He lay upon McPherson ridge
while litters bore
what dead they could.
Thinking how, on first July
while staring at the clotted ground
he'd smiled to see, how strangely
grew the cabbage heads
so fine, so red
with beards all round
beneath the teeth.
Next: 'Elizabeth Thorn'
