On visiting the Paoli Memorial Grounds, June 3rd, 2004

I cleared my mind and strolled across the rolling grassy field
The scene of slaughter on an autumn evening long ago
When sharp, cold steel and bright, hot flames clashed with soft, warm flesh
As soldiers -shocked and sleepy- stumbled out into the night
Into a barrage of British bayonets.

I cringed in anticipation of the agonized screams
That the spiritually-attuned claim still linger in the air
I braced myself against the onslaught of an icy wave of horror
That would surely sweep through my body
Leaving me drained as a skewered corpse, to fall limply to the earth.

The grass -long dry and green- yielded no clues, told no tales
Of an ancient hecatomb.
The air was still save for the sounds of birds, passing cars
And an occasional dog in the distance.
No apparitions darted from the woods upon the edge.
There was no haunting presence, no overwhelming sorrow
No pounding pathos to assault the living.

I stood within the tiny, walled graveyard flanked by iron cannons
Where the 53 patriots –stabbed and skewered, burned and bludgeoned- lay
Nothing more than a heap of buried bones now
Beneath a faded marker whose inscription
Could never tell their tale.
Even the king of the park
A majestic granite obelisk that watched over the whole site
Was just a giant block of stone.

© September 2, 2004 by Allan M. Heller