"Natchez"

"Natchez"

What town is this I think I know
It squares along the river though
It's ghostlike antebellum sweep
Still pangs of voices long ago

Confederate crimes in secrets kept
Their history in graveyards slept
While mothers more than often weep
Of their children's death-lament

Plantations clothed in cottons dress
When birds were simply posturous
Slaves have gleaned, her harvest reeps
Fruits of single mindedness

The hate, the guilt and melancholy
The uncreating season's folly
Steeps with bliss, Emotion's maze
Such deeds were done back in those days

On river banks she finds her crest
For me her novel household guest
In her I find the perfect place
For all that I have layed to rest.

Copyright. 2003 S.L. Schofield