Aboard ship we came across the sea,
My woman, my children and me,
Forsaking all, leaving England behind,
To new beginnings uncertain and unkind.

Hack out of wilderness a place we toil,
Struggled each day sustenance from rocky soil,
Relying upon that fruit, our labors would yield,
Along with Elk, Deer, Turkey hunted afield.

Though life was hard, On each other we could count,
Then felt certain no trouble we could not surmount,
Agony yet then that most gray of days came to pass,
Algonquin braves stole my children and you my Lass.

Livestock slain, Log house burnt to the ground,
Dread choked me as I searched sign all round,
With musket, longbow, tomahawk, and knife in hand,
I set out to follow tracking their party across the land.

Our children first I found, limp and broken souls,
Stopping briefly to bury, mourning their innocent roles,
All the while malevolence growing deep inside,
Filling my heart where once hope and love did reside.

Following old trails, onward upward ever faster I pursue,
Not sleeping, not eating, not daring to think of anything but you,
Hoping, praying, beyond all hopes a miracle God might grant,
Then there along the trail you lay, on my knees I rail and rant.

With broken, bloody hands, I dig your grave, passed now all my fears,
With a kiss, I lay you gently in the ground, eyes clouded with tears,
Twisting inside, I feel reason slip shrouded by anger I have never known,
I set out on my quest, nurturing this maniacal passion within which has grown.

Weapons ready, oblivious to all else, down the trail in moccasin I fly,
There ahead they are at last, startled by my rush and the glare in my eye,
The first falls with my Hawkins' roar, the next my tomahawk buried deep in chest,
The thirds' skull crushed with my rifle butt, the fourth soon followed the rest.

Covered in blood from head to toe, circling round and round I face the last brave,
Each with knife in hand we parry and thrust, each getting as good as he gave,
As our struggle drags on, weariness sets in, I see in his eyes the mark of respect,
Though crazed with hate and revenge on this I choose not to reflect.

The only sound our raged breath echoing in this lonely primeval grove,
Caring not should I live or die, casting caution to the wind, into his grasp I dove,
In the struggle while we grapple each buried knife shared deep,
He is dead, I am tired, I think I will sleep….

S. L. Keck
4/17/99
 

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