HENRY'S SON

Born 6 July 1834
South, Lunenburg County

Baptized 27 July 1834

Dutch Reformed Church, Lunenburg

Dies in mid-winter at 18 months 
Apparently a handful of months 
after the family arrives...

Pleasant River Settlement 1836

They aught not do 

this in January

Hiding him in earth

without lilacs or roses

So light  

So soft  

So cold

In her rough cabin

stifled and broken

Mary An keeps watch

beside his small body

Stiff strong fingers pleat her

thin skin of black mourning

Mother 

flesh 

convulses

Remembering the moment he broke

from her womb into this wild world

Two steel-rimmed troughs

cut the snow-slurred muck

Slice through frost

The wagon drags

its burden to the top

of Cemetery Hill

Breathless   Without sound

I sing to you my first son

This harsh earth cries

out for your bones

I kneel and gently lay

my fresh bouquet of tears

Hush      Walk with quiet feet

Children sleep beneath this soil

THE PILGRIMAGE

PART III

   Pte. Joseph William Colp 

                 1919-1943

***
Moro River War Cemetery

May 2017

Now it’s our turn.
Your Newfoundland niece Darlene will come.
Bring her husband and daughter. We are
told it’s warm and dry in May. No mud.
She is the war artist. Paints the valor
and misery of the Blue Puttees.
Battle of the Somme.

801 men went over the top knowing…
68 answered rollcall the next day.

One painting bears the distinctive mark
of your letters home. “I Remain,
Your Affectionate Son, Joe”.
Your carefully placed words
reflect none of Italy’s pain.

“I am sure,” she says,
“we will all be humbled.”

***

Moro River War Cemetery

March 1944

Foreign hands dig up my body
from San Pietro roadside. Bring me
here near Blackie and 100 more of my mates.
At Cassino, just north of Castel di Sangro,
20,000 of the Jerries are buried.
At peace. At last. Under Italy’s brilliant blue sky.

I never think of my German blood.
Came from Wiernsheim. 200 years ago.
I am the one who dies.
Odd. Now we know
by the time this bloody war is over
almost 50 German soldiers who
share my name lie dead.

Josef Kolb

Das nie eine Mutter mehr ihren Sohn beweint.ii

***

Moro River War Cemetery

August 2017

It will be blistering hot, they say.
No cool Atlantic breezes.
If it were spring, Uncle Joe,
I would bring you mayflowers.
We come anyways, more nieces,
Annette and I. Great-nephew Adam.
Like you he takes good care of his mother.
Will drive us along the road to San Pietro.
Stop at the foot of Mount Miglio.
Castel di Sangro. Perhaps another day
wander up to the quiet spot where
so many enemy soldiers lie buried.

Did you know Germany still recovers
thousands of its war dead each year?
The Liri River Highway. Death Valley
they called it. “This,” I jokingly tell my son,
“is our World Peace tour.” He lives in Germany.
Expects a test at the end. Says he will fake it.

We turn east to the Adriatic.
His partner, Gabi, is half Italian.
She will keep us from starving.
Head to her ancestral home. Pescara.
Did you know ¾ of that city was
destroyed by Allied bombs?

Praying for sunshine
the next morning we will drive
½ hour south to the gates of Moro River
_ And. Finally. You. Your niece Barbara
has the right words:

“It makes him seem close at last.”

The cut runs deep.
Today we kneel.
Trace the cross.
Blood. Bone. Earth.

***

They paid me $1.50 a day.
My mother depended on me.
She receives $48.66.
Forwarded by regular mail.

Three months later they catalogue
my earthly wealth. File the list
in a dusty Ottawa department shelf.

A small change purse.
My New Testament.
Photos of my family.

The people of Castel di Sangro
still remember us.
Citizen soldiers.

We weren’t in it for the money.

Semper Fidelis.iii

________________

ii. "That never more a mother will mourn her son."
From ' Rising from the Ruins', national anthem f the German Democratic Republic. Often quoted on war memorials.

iii.  Always Faithful.  Motto of the West Nova Scotia Regiment.

THE PILGRIMAGE

Part II

***

Moro River War Cemetery

July 2013

Barb your niece is the next to come.

Kneel before your cross.

Slip her hands inside

this comforting earth.

She covers the offering brought

 from your younger brother Simeon.

He was 13 that foggy morning

you shipped out on the Bergensfjord.

Almost 15 when word came.

He remembers.

Sent a cowbell

forged in the fire

by your blacksmith

grandfather’s hand.

His name was Joseph too.

Quietly she places it now.

You have 23 other nieces.

26 nephews.

Over 70 grandnephews

and nieces.     50 more in

the next generation.

Barb is the one who comes

but they all know your name.

She has been a healer. Now an artist.  

Paints beauty. Lilacs. Mountains.

Pleasant River’s autumn leaves.

(You would remember those.)

Her sister paints the stark reality of war.

An aunt, with deft fingers, weaves

a fresh green wreath each November.

Poppies blood red.

Most men only die once.

***

1943

July

Sicily

The 10^th

Operation Husky.  Narrow dirt trails.

Steep volcanic mountains.

Malaria. Exhaustion. Malnutrition.

Just six cups of water.

Burning sun by day. Sudden chill.
Mosquito swarms by night.

Not what we expected

when they gave tropical kit.

Thought it was a ruse

to fool the Krauts.

Glode from Lunenburg

is the first to die.

Just 29.  But older than most.

Two days later it’s Parrsboro’s turn.

Cut down holding high ground

near Monte Della Forma.

Blazing hot sun. Little water.

17 days of bitter fighting lie ahead.

***

Libertinia

The 23^rd  

As we near enemy shellfire ceases.

We apply mosquito cream.

Two Goering corporals white flag

encourage us to surrender

or face full fury of the Iron Cross.

Furious Higgins tells them where to go.

Sicily guts 33 of our boys.

Mailman from North Brookfield.

Eugene and Myrtle's son.    Just 22.

Wonder who is left after

a sweating day hot haying.

Sit on the steps.   Share a pop

at Roscoe s store.

***

August

Whistling Hill    

The 2^nd   

The bloodiest day. 19 killed.

At sundown under machine gun

protection we retrieve our wounded.

Blood caked on hands and face.

The first real test.

Passed with highest honours.

***

September

Crossing The Messina

The 3^rd

Old Greeks believe sea monsters

inhabit these roiling waters.

Reggio, Italy

5 a.m.

Landed. Nova Scotia has the first

boots on the ground.

8:30 a.m.

Both forts now in our hands.

A solitary enemy gun barks.

64 of our guns let loose

on the ill-advised offender.

Silence.

Near Gamberia

The 6^th

Heavy rain. Rum takes the chill

from our bones. We hunker down

in spruce forest by dusk.

Lots of spruce in Lunenburg County.

These mountains make ours

look like anthills.

Cold. Drenched.

The 7^th

8:30 a.m.

Rum ration issued.

Locri. Four days to Catanzaro.

Then on to Francavila.

San Arcangelo. Laurenzana.

On our way to Potenza.

A five-hour drive. Or a six-day march

up the toe of Italy’s boot. The retreating

Krauts leave blown bridges, mine-studded

and cratered roads.

Potenza

The 28^th

A week’s halt. We wait for supplies.

Tonight. A furious thunderstorm.

High winds. Torrential rain.

Autumn grips with biting nails.

The coldest place in Italy. But

Potenza’s heart is warm.

Its wine is good.

Deserted Hitler wants the Italians

to bleed and burn.  Fight Gott dammit,

he tells Kesselring, for every possible inch.

A long and bloody struggle lies ahead.

The 30^th

On the road to Campobasso.

Shiver in thin khaki. Pup tents

little protection. Eternal thunder

competes with never-ending gunfire.

***

October

The 7^th   

3 a.m.

We enter the battle.

7:30 a.m.

The Fortore River. A perfect

‘killing ground’. Spray of German

machinegun bullets, water and gravel.

Putnam’s deep voice booms:

‘Come on you birds. It’s only ankle deep.’

Steps in. Vanishes. Helmet and all.

Once over, we attack the steep climb.

Brown mud porridge. Bits of straw.

Cling to our boots like farmyard muck.

Years later, this will be remembered

as the Battle of Snowshoe Hill.

Cross 100 yards of open river bed

under heavy enemy machinegun fire.

Our backs are covered by

welcome chatter from

the Saskatoon boys.

Mud makes progress difficult.

On the road to Gambatesa

Putnam answers the ringing

of a German phone.

“The English are here. Ha Ha.”

Replaces the receiver amid

a burst of guttural oaths.

Ahead a strong enemy position

tops the hill.     Our company

gains it by last light.

Practically without food for two days.

We raid a farmhouse. Bake the chickens

Indian-style in clay. AMGOT[i] does not

understand hunger.

We’ve lost Hatt from Milton

and a handful of others.

He was just 23.   Left a war bride

Peggy in Devon, England.

We pass a peaceful night.

***

“Your enemy is always in front of you

You see him coming

You see death coming

Either his death or yours

It’s not a surprise”

-          Sniper Fire, Jonathon Web

***

October

Rumors are thick. We are going

back to England.

The 8^th   

It’s early afternoon when Capt. Whynacht

(good Lunenburg County name) arrives

with rations. Came through enemy shellfire

over roads not yet swept for mines.

We evacuate 19 wounded.

A quiet night.

***

The 10^th-11^th  

Heading toward Riccia.

Terrain too rough for marching.

The Brits’ 1^st Airborne arrive

to back us in the coming attack.

Approach enemy stronghold

around midnight.

6:30 am  

The colonel orders advance.

Company C comes under heavy shelling

by the river bed.       We are more

fortunate.    Cross the river and

push on to high ground.

Near the heights of Mont Gildone

heavy mist settles in.      With lack of

vision, thick darkness, we dig in.

A wretched night in the open.

Exhausted. Wet. Comfortless.

Occasional burst of machinegun fire.

***

The 12^th  

Morale comes up

with the sun.   At afternoon’s end

Higgins and Putnam both badly wounded

near the river bed burying six of

our dead from the previous day.

Goodchild. Kilcup. MacKenzie.

McCulloch. Taylor and Williams.

The Valley gave us her best.

Putnam dies.

In all, 17 killed, 52 wounded.

***

“We were very young.

We thought we were immortal.”

-          Pte. John Field

***

November

The 1^st

November in Campobasso. Middle of

the mountains. Peaks already white with snow.

Bitter rain. Acres of mud. We move slowly.

Eyes firmly fixed on the Holy City.

The 7^th

Always bloody raining. Malaria has been

replaced by jaundice.  Our skin takes on

a golden glow.

The 12^th

Icy winds. Torrential rains. Improvised shelters.
Eating cold rations.  We hear that one of our boys
MIA in Sicily has turned up in the Vaterland.
Bullet or POW. Hard choice.
God bless you, Amirault.

The 15^th

Moving out towards Carovilli, we pass through

scorched villages. Roads little more than mule

tracks. Krauts are leaving nothing behind.

The 16^th

Pouring rain. Rivers swelling. We begin

a deadly game of hide and seek.

The 17^th

This afternoon Romkey’s patrol surprises

and kills four Germans. Now we know.

We face the Green Devils.

Fallschirmjäger – parachute hunters.

German warrior incarnate

also known as Hitler’s War Machine.

Waiting for us in the woods.

The 18^th

At last. A brilliant sunny day. Shortly

before noon, Lt. Blackie Blanchard

leads our B company patrol scouting

toward San Pietro. We meet the devil.

***

“I think I had taken three steps when

the first one hit me. You say a bullet or

piece of shrapnel hits you. But the word

isn’t right.  They slam you the way

a sledgehammer slams you.

There’s no sharp pain at first.”

-          Lt. Col. Jean-Pierre Menard

Fusiliers Mont-Royal

***

The fight was fierce but brief. Outnumbered.

Mortally wounded. My mates bury me at roadside.

Little do we know in four days most of them

will join me into the pitch drenched night

on top of Castel di Sangro. Mortally wounded

himself, Blackie will order his men to leave

his body in German hands. Brave lad, just 22,

Fresh from PEI’s red mud. He did us proud.

***

“West Novas finest chapters were written in

blood and sweat. The men who wore the sunrise

badge through Sicily, Italy and Holland lived

up to its motto firmly. .. 352 were faithful

unto death.”

-          Thomas Raddall

Author and historian

---

[i] Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories

THE PILGRIMAGE

 Part 1

Pte. Joseph William Colp 
             1919-1943

One by one      we come

Sink our feet ankle deep

into the cold Italian mud
Finding our way to Moro River.

Just 22 when you board the troop ship.
Early morning Halifax fog.
Then Scotland. Sussex. Sicily.
Four months to the Sangro.

And finally beneath the earth

near San Pietro.

We sent our young men.

Our strongest. Our best.

And they died.

Years vanish. Yet the rest of our family

comes searching for you. All taking

different paths. Mother. Brothers. 

Sisters. Nieces. Nephews. We listen

for one last whisper of your voice.

***

Moro River War Cemetery

June 1983

Lillian is the first

The baby sister

Father now dead

Not even four

She will not remember

you whispering goodbye

The rough warm wool of

your khaki West Nova kit.

The Christmas tree stood

til February that Winter of ‘42.

its needles dry and rusty red

Mother so sure the war would end

You. Would. Come Home.

Lillian is almost 80 now.

Memory fading. Yet she remembers.

Has knelt in the bright Adriatic sun.

touched your cross.

“The Lord is thy keeper.

The Lord is thy shade

upon thy right hand”

Psalm 121:5

***

He was a sniper, his brother says

A gentle country boy

with smiling eyes

Perfect vision.

Growing up in the Lunenburg

County woods in the 1930s

The second son

Learned early to shoot clean

Moose. Bear. Deer. Partridge.

More than a dozen lives

depended on it.

Country boys they said

made the best snipers.

Much more than just superb shots

The patience of Job

The eye of a hawk

Nerves of steel

A gentle spirit

A skilled hunter.

There are no white hands in war.

***

1942

It was deep winter

when our ship slipped

into the Firth of Clyde.

Worthing – Brighton

(on the English Channel)

June

The 26^th

Sports day. We take honors

by a good margin.  Nova Scotia’s flag

flies triumphant. Our men capture

the Brigade Silver Cup.

Arundel – Littlehampton

(across the Channel from LeHavre)

Early July

High hopes of sea bathing.

Sadly famous beaches pocked with

mines and forbidden.  I dream of

home and the tumbling LaHave River.
The world inside my head.

October

Our old friend Brig. Foulkes turns up

Tells us West Novas are largely

a seafaring population. We will suffer

less from seasickness. Looks to us to

spearhead any landing by the 3^rd Brigade.

Englishmen haven’t spent much time

in Nova Scotia hayfields.

Newhaven

(across the Channel from Dieppe)

December

The 25^th

Not a creature stirs til 8:30 a.m.

We worship. Sing carols. The familiar

Christmas story. All the turkey and roast

pork we can eat. With all the fixings.

At Drove Hall, trestle tables

bright red and green. Lit with candles.

A gift by each man’s plate. Officers tap

us a bountiful supply of beer.

Rumor has it my father and his 

best friend Arch had a still between

their hills down by the brook.

Alcohol never a guest at our table.

We will remember on night manoeuvres

When we are Wet. Cold. Chilled to the bone.

Lt. Col. Bogert wishes us all Merry Xmas.

Hopes are high the next time we will

have dinner with our families at home.

It becomes clear.

1943 will be the year.

***

“It wasn’t Hell. It was the courtyard

of Hell. A maelstrom of noise and hot

spitting steel. The rattling of machine

guns never stops. Wounded men refuse

to leave. Mud. Rain. Death. Blight.

And desolation.”

                -Matthew Halton

                CBC war journalist
                Recalling the Battle of Ortona

                Christmas 1943

***

1943

Waiting. Waiting. Always bloody waiting.

Crieff, Scotland

Wolfe Force. They called it hardening

Fire live ammunition over our heads

A commando unit shows us

how to kill with our hands

Three enemies await us:

Malaria. Jaundice. And the Germans.

June

The 13^th

Communion for Protestants

The 15^th, 8:30 am

150 cigs issued to each man

Shoulder patches and division

flashes removed. Take the train

to port of embarkation

Arrive ½ hour ahead of schedule.

Gourock on Clyde

Fog, rain and rising seas

We board the Polish liner, Batory

now known as HMT A8.

She’s also dubbed ‘The Lucky Ship’

Unlike her sister survives the war.

The 21^st

Weather fine and clear

We get our first dose of

suppressive mepacrine

Ready for mosquito warfare

Rumor is it makes you sterile.

The 28^th

Preparing to depart

Tweedie orders blackout

Convoy will not stop to pick up

anyone who falls overboard

We considered ourselves warned

Put out to sea.

The 29^th

In centre of the convoy

We turn west

Disembodied voice announces:

“We are going to the Mediterranean

to take part in the biggest combined

operation ever conceived.”

Still at sea

July   

The 1st

Penhale speaks

Reveals our secret destination

                              * SICILY

The whole ship breaks into cheers

We are now part of the famous

8^th Army under Montgomery

who makes it clear

Syracuse is expected to be

in our hands by breakfast

the day we land.

The 2^nd

Montgomery welcomes us

as ‘magnificent soldiers’

Absolutely confident that

our hunting in the homeland

of the Italians will meet

with sure success.  Wonder what

Hitler tells his boys.

The 4^th

Bearing east toward Gibraltar

Depth charges dropped by destroyers

We follow the shining path.

The 7^th

Huge force of ships appears

to starboard moving with us

We pray they are American.

The 9^th

Last minute details ironed out

Bogert stresses resistance will be

to the last man and the last round

-- even when completely surrounded.

Going ashore

The 10^th

We land in 3 to 6 feet of water

aggravated by heavy swells

The load we each carry

made somewhat heavier by

this underwater march.

***

When this Bloody War is over

over 70 million people will lie dead.
Mostly Russian and Chinese.

Most will be civilians.


NOTES:  The West Nova Scotia Regiment proudly carries the honour of the longest fighting record in Canadian history. It dates prior to 1697 under the old French regime. Young men are drawn mainly from the South Shore and the Fundy Shore. Joseph’s Great-Uncle Heinrich was also a member of the early militia. On 19 November 1821 he was issued a “ King’s musquet, bayonet and belt, cartouch box and belt”.  In return for this, he was bound to protect the province from wild Indians.

Joseph William Colp
 (1919 - 1943)
uncle


Charles Andrew Colp (1880 - 1940)
father of Joseph William Colp


Charles Harris Colp (1915 - 2002)
son of Charles Andrew Colp


Betty Anne Colp
You are the daughter of Charles Harris Colp

HAMMER AND TONGS 1923

Joseph William Colp 

My great-grandfather Joseph was

a maker of cowbells

In the old blacksmith shop

at the foot of the homestead hill

fierce fire blazing in his forge

iron hammer

firm and steady hand

Sharp and clear

their clappers sang

as the gentle beasts bent

to chew dry pasture

Or swill a bellyful from

the rich brown brook

Until the day driving

home from Hemford

with his horse and wagon

he heard his own harsh music

hung on the neck

of a Crouse cow

Hacked it off

Brought it home

Claimed his own

On a cold winter Sunday at 73

Set at table

Spilled coins

his week’s labour

from a leather pouch

Dropped dead

Leaves his wife Lavinia

(she who leaves letters for witches)

His grandson – the third Joseph – just 3

By a quirk of fate

finds his home

next to the fence

among Baker Settlement

pioneer stones

Decades later

that bell found its own path

An offering planted

by a gentle hand

in the soft earth

of Italy’s Moro River

Rests forever in the grave

of grandson Joseph

All of them finally home.

VANISHING Spring 1917

`(from Things I Meant To Tell You)

In this picture, Arch, my gentle grandfather, grips

Eldon, his eldest, by the shoulders.

In a handful of years, these same hands

calloused and sun-hardened

will carve the child’s coffin.

Make it large enough to hold young Mildred.

See how the apple trees – the vanishing astrakhan –

hover around them, about to break open with

summer’s ample promise. Violet, my grandmother,

then so slender and young,

cradles her infant girl.

‘They ate unwashed apples,’ she will say years later

Long after her tears have all been spent. Such deep and

hidden grief. Perhaps this is why I never saw her cry.

Great-grandmother Ida, grafted strong from Plymouth

Plantation stock. She, too, will vanish. Her liver swollen.

Beside her, Bert, the silent son. Forty-four

years later, he lays dying on a pre-Christmas Eve.

Her laudanum bottle is found

at rest in the bottom of his

old pine chest.

Note the chicken coop and log shop. And behind them

a whisper of plank buildings that I can’t quite remember.

Barn and woodshed probably. And the seat,

it would seem, of the mowing machine.

Bitter red currants blossom here.

Young Florrie, just 14, in her apron, looks solemnly

into the camera, not dreaming that she too will name

a child Mildred, replacing the lost.

They are all recovering from the red measles

Elsie, the daughter yet unborn, will say. But today

the sun is hot. Feel its soft breath. See they are sitting

in the earth. Later, that same ground will whisper

cancer and cholera. Listen. Touch your ear

to the invisible grass and listen.

                                                                                       4 Se 2012

Lavinia

My great-grandmother whose

name I cannot remember

had Alzheimer’s

A mammoth woman

Bones bent like my father’s

She left letters for witches

at the foot of his bed

(Although I never could

find out what they said)

Cured his sore throat with

the white of chicken dung

mixed with blackstrap molasses

It took eight men to carry her

down Joseph’s Hill that spring

she crossed the veil

The damp earth mashed

and wagon axle deep

First leg of a long journey

Back the single-tracked Barrens Road

(although in truth her journey

 was much longer)

The country kitchen door finally shut

on the sweet hayfields of her life

The gore of Margaret Smith's mad murder

the mother, covered in blood, standing

at midnight by the foot of her bed

Her handsome husband

Joseph the blacksmith

counting the coins of his day’s labour

spilling from his leather pouch

as he falls dead on her kitchen table

(The Pleasant River wild with strife

She took him home to Begger Settlement

Buried him at the graveyard’s edge)

Her

   turn

      now

         to

            journey

              

               Far

                  out

                     and

                        beyond

NOTE:  Baker Settlement, named for another German ancestor and Hessian deserter, Georg Baker, sounded ‘Begger Settlement’ in South Shore dialect.  Lavinia was born to Charles Boliver and Elizabeth Weagel on 30 Aug 1847 along Pleasant River Road (probably current day Baker Settlement).  She died at 1:30 a.m. on 7 May 1929 in Colpton, Lunenburg County. She was 81 years old.  Cause of death was senile degeneration.  It was a particularly wet spring.

Elsie eats a Granny Smith apple and remembers

High on Gladys’ Hill

Behind the hulk of

the weather-worn barn

the old Macintosh tree

now, like Gladys, only a whisp

at the edge of her memory

bears the best apples

she has ever bitten

Bright scarlet skin

Inside crisp white and pink

tangy and tart

She and Gladys’ Frances

eldest and adventurous daughters

clutch their fruit and climb

higher and higher

up the ladder

to perch free as summer swallows

on the barn roof

in the sky

crunching

swooping

born to fly

9 May 2012

DAVID, MY BROTHER

That cold February morning when you came / I did not want

you / 'Take him back,' I said / My three-year-old heart

appalled at your bald head / And the fact that you were

not my sister / Instead you crept inside my heart / Still

I continued to send you away / galled because you dogged

my footsteps


Angered that you were ever the baby / Given the warm

and best / The single Sunday afternoon seat in our old Ford

pickup / I left to keep watch on ailing, aging Uncle Bert

My dentist trip denied / because our father promised you

the drive to New Germany / Unattended my tooth grew

sturdy, crooked and ugly


Your grubby little boy hands always

held the biggest half of his heart


On Wednesday mornings / in the Lunenburg County fog

I picked the long row of pickling cucumbers / Sharp spines

pricked my fingertips / You allowed to play / 'He's too young

for such hard work,' they said / My heart bled / All sense of

being loved quickly draining away / and dying


Yet years later / at some undefined moment / your poor

frail body racked and broken / you too lay dying

What was I doing / that moment your heart stopped beating

and I didn't know? / And when I heard / my heart broke too

Shattered into a million wet and glistening pieces

Thin shards that / even now / pierce my body


I hear your voice / See your smile / Meet you on occasion

in a grocery aisle / On the small square of earth / that marks

your grave / I ask Annette to choose two white roses

place them gently in the fading Labour Day light / Crickets

anoint the air with their sweet hymn / I am afraid my fingers

pricked by the rose / might not release the stem / Let you go

8Se09

BROTHER (Born too soon)

Summer 1958

This morning I open the gift you give me
Wrapped in the thin breath of a Lunenburg County spring

A wreath of mist-scented mayflowers
Fragile skin, palest pink Leaves tough as leather

Grey granite boulders Their rough cries cut
In a dank distant past and delivered
To this hallowed pasture with intense faith
By some fierce and fiery glacier

Keddy Brook sings its bright melody
Thick and brown it skips over stones
Dipping my fingers into its holy well
I sprinkle your invisible bones
In not living, you avoid death
Sweet stranger who now inherits Jacob's land

I christen thee Jacob
Lift you into the hands
Of an all forgiving God

Centuries from now - long after
I am gone - your young spirit
Will splash through this brook
Still dance on this land
Our sacred trust

You bought this for me with your blood


NOTES: Birthed in Elsie's upstairs bedroom
Your only blanket this chilled hush
A solemn murmur of voices
Alone in my room, I listen
Dr. Bennett's feet retreat down the stairs
No one breathes...

2005 Aug 27

Julianna’s Death 1791

The Boutilier Murders


Morning is silver soft

The ocean weeps
Its thin veil sweeps in
A heavy shroud over
the granite shore boulders
Creeps up the bank
Breaks on balsam fir and birch
Blesses the wild alders

Stifle the ocean's quiet moan
Let nothing breathe

Fingers sift cinders
Night's harsh breath
Charred logs
broken by flame
This strange dance
of sacrificial death
cracked open by one
fierce stroke of
the neighbour's iron pivee

Last night's pyre
yields up its bodies
Cross-piled in the ashes
Anointed by black blood
A girl... The old man...
And at last... underneath
cradling them both
Julianna

Spirit sliced from
her plump German flesh
by one wild blow
thrown in anger by
the Boutiliers' hatchet

Far from her Vaterland birth

Earth
becomes
flesh
becomes
earth

The ocean roars and weeps
Hide... Oh hide your soft secrets

With reverent fear
stiff arthritic fingers
brush back a thick
layer of ash

The ocean cleaves and rolls
Protect... Oh protect these savaged souls

Unseen, the Unknown God
gets up from His throne
In one swift sweep scoops
Julianna's breath
off the ash heap

Cleanses the dust
Transforms it in a flash
to mirth-filled dancing bone

Forgiven... Scrubbed... Reborn
She runs safely home


NOTES: The night had been thick. The sea rolled a great deal.
Two months later, the brothers were hanged at the scene of the murder.

Songs of My Father

the passing seasons
Grandmother was a big woman
'Did ya see any caribou
tracks, Josie?' she'd say
When he come back from the barn

The morning heaving heavy with frost

The snow was maybe three feet thick
And she fixed our throats with molasses
Mixed with a bit of white
Scraped off chicken dung
One of her boys went to Chicago
He got rich there on cattle

Yah, Lavinia was a big woman, alright

Will never did get back

She spoilt me some rotten
Left letters for the witches
At the foot of my bed
(I don't know why)

Grandfather had a heart attack
As he sat countin' the day's wages
Out of his leather blacksmith's pouch

She took him back to Begger Settlement
Buried him with her people
Up against the cemetery fence
(There'd been a fight about
Ploughed-over graves
Seeded down with grain
In Pleasant River)

No, Will never did get back
And it took eight men
To haul her down the hill
Thro' wheel ruts and muck
That spring she passed on.

*******************
travelling the Barrens Road

That turn in the road back there
Once that was Badger's Corner

Though I never knew why it was

Some desperate narrow
Then... We watched out for it
In the winter with the sledges

In case you went off

There was ledges on one side
Badger's Corner was some mean
I never knew why they called it that

*****************
living the life

They was desperate poor
Living back there off the road

And eatin' just mostly
Rabbits and such

Mother kept all 14 of us fed
Fresh bread every day
And big skillets full of hash
A hundred pound bag
Of flour each week

They sure was desperate poor...

Bleeding Hearts

We have packed hurriedly

The sad news came last night
At the end of a gloriously
Bright late summer's day

'David has gone,' Lorraine says

Our voices break and mingle
With such inadequate tears

For years we have dreaded
This moment now standing
Before us raw and bare

Lock the door ... Pack the car
I look down and notice
I am wearing my red sandals

Remember our first sorrow

I am 11 ... David only 7
Preparing for our infant sister's funeral
I wear red ankle socks - my last clean pair

'Dad, tell her she can't wear red...'
Our brother's voice cuts the air

Decades older ... No wiser
I close my eyes
Slide down the silent years
On my knees
Mop up the blood with prayer
Listen for your voice

3-9-09

Sacrifice

Ida Drucella (July 5 – Aug. 8, 1902)

Jacob’s house of dreams was built
for just one thousand dollars

The sharp chip of chisel
carves a sweet canticle

Philip (The Carpenter) Fancy’s hammer
wiped with sweat from heady noon heat

He crafts a kitchen with eight doors and –
high in the woodshed – a shoemaker’s bench
for the snipping and shaping of tough leather

A tiny boot laced and buttoned

Intricate lines of tacks
Tapped into its sole
Delicately
Deliberately
Spaced by Jacob’s rough hand

Each tap echoes the sweet refrain
Song of late Saturday summer rain
A symphony of children yet to come
along the Pleasant River Road

Loyalist blood will only be
a whisper in their veins
A seaman’s frosty breath
Salt of Martha’s Vineyard

Carried here carefully by
Ida Newcomb, the new bride
The glow and blow of her
grandfather’s blacksmith brawn
carve her handsome face

Quiet woman on a quiet land

Her morning-still spirit
gently paces an equally
solemn and stubborn grace

Under the dark canopy of
Lunenburg County stars

Under this strong roof

Jacob’s house becomes an altar
A cradle for five children’s deaths

July – in the heavy heat of hayfields –
Ida waits the first one’s going
Her final birth


For a month, the infant
shares the close crib
with Florrie, her stronger twin

Breathes her strength

Blessed by gentle touches
from five sturdy brothers

Until that first frail August morning

Window sash hoisted high
In the room to the right
at the head of the stairs

The curtain hangs limp

The house holds its breath

Ida cradles her gentle daughter
Blesses the last fragile gasp
Anoints her with her own name

It will travel with this wee one
on its soon long journey

To the waiting hole
on top of Cemetery Hill

The hush of her morning lullaby
Its sweet scent denies
the whisperers of death

Birthed from birth
Ida Drucella’s small soul slips
out through the lathes and plaster

Trembling hands cannot hold her.