Hockomock Swamp

Soldiers

And people with worn out faces

Probably dwelled here

And we thought about this a while

As we stood,

Poised in fear

It was a short muddy trek

Rubber tires spun and spit sludge

Peddling grunts from behind

Swarming clouds both above and below

Our sweaty, round faces tight and scrunched

Under the spectral gaze of King Philip

We listened to ancients whisper

to those unkind

And we traveled silently, like our ancestors before

Carefully

slowly

And then, shuffling

As if our hands were bound

In line

Without a hint of the journeys end

In sight

These were hallowed grounds,

Always with a theory in mind,

We romanticized the way boys do

Tranquil,

Vulnerable to the dirt, in anticipation

For any death and disease that we might have found

As young boys we took pleasure

In our mischief, and

Of courage and ignorance

In a risky measure,

Knocked on a ghostly door to a tomb

Both of us awaiting spiritual reprisal

And also

For a small window of time

for which to peek inside

And when we did, King Phillip shown his grace

Did not give us the key we sought

But instead, bestowing upon us

A gift

Ambiguous and transparent

A simple tale of action.  

Kyle O’Leary