when two families first met on this bloody field
that was full of blurred, divided lines.
Squatting Irish immigrant families
looking for a new start in this new land,
working what they had with blistered hands,
building homes and plowing fields
to being safe shelter and food for the family.
Families expanding their lands by taking
patches from others that had better soil
and grooming it as if the food grown was their own.
The thefts brought tension into the town square
amongst the original settlers and the new.
Stern faces and rages eyes
met the immigrant squatters.
Midnight fires started to burn,
leaving families without a ceiling
or a lively hood to continue.
Violence in the night crawled
along by masked men.
The fire in the sky lit the damage.
The field in which I am standing
still has burnt soil that will not grown.
The growing ground is still laced with red
from when family fought to a slaughter.
That silence of that time still reigns over this town
as the children of the hunters
who do not want to explore their history
or even walk past the field of destruction
that has an over-hanging shadow
filled with the screaming ghosts of 1887.
October 30, 2015
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2015