Harvest Of Death: Gettysburg Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Slowly, the mist of morning rose on the silent fields
The sodden dead of armies lay drenched in the rain
Stripped of their shoes which marched away with the living

Some bodies were dumped in the nooks of Devil's Den.
Wounded lay groaning, too many to count or be cared for

Orchards and woods were raw from the cannons’ firestorm
The roots of the trees, drank blood that drained and spilled
From bodies smashed to rubble, by fences burning

In the Trostles’ farm, dinner left untouched on the table
Belongings looted or trashed…collateral damage
Sixteen dead battery horses stinking out the yard
And over a hundred more across the fields

Acres of wheat and corn, flattened, destroyed
Cows, pigs and chickens carried away as spoils
And 15 barrels of flour unpaid, gone AWOL

The farmer himself, insane in a world gone mad
And over all, the terrible clusters of flies