There were 156 days till the end of year
1755 and the wheels of power turned
though not with water over the slats;
There was an energy more vigorous . . .
more heartbreaking than any Longfellow
hexameter . . . than even Gabe’s death
in Evangeline’s arms.
Boats and bows were war instruments,
romantic and quaint as we find them
today; But that energy manifested
as war never suffered as its agents:
Amidst upheaval, that energy never died.
Here we meet again as if time stopped.
And we attempt to measure the future:
Will we regret closing gates
like loyalists did then?
Will we demand allegiance
like conquerors did then?
Will we see into the hearts of men
the way lords dreamed of then?
Or while guerilla wars flare, will
civilians and economies fall?
And fallen — modern or ancient —
what citadel, what walls
will be sacred? And once again
will robes that ought to stoke love,
will they stoke other fires instead?