Tess Kincaid, somewhere in Ohio, considers the curse of Chief Leatherlips and damp golfers ...
There were signal trees,
bent, tied as sapling maples,
marking the sacred burial ground
of the Wyandot.
They grew into silent curled trunks,
respected by the Sells brothers
and their settlers;
words were their bond.
Two hundred years later:
no one remembers.
The chief sings a valedictory chant,
song of the living dead,
laughs as he calls wind from the Scioto,
rain to avenge his people.
Strident golfers run for cover
in shiny Range Rovers;
spectators under umbrellas
watch torrents of answered prayer.
Tess Kincaid: Leatherlips poets pen | |
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| People & Blogs | Upload TimePublished on 26 May 2014 |
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