Brandywine
by Hannah K
What a place for men to kill their brothers.
These gentle slopes were slippery slopes
The evening mist was haze and smoke
The spreading oaks were shade of death
And haggard hope, he held his breath.
He held his breath and swore
Under—without it—this was worse
Than kings and fury, taxes, fate.
Who knew what blood was given for?
Who, who, would mourn and man the hearse?
Now souls lie resting in a leafy pallor.
Farmers fly colors full of gratitude.
The botanist has taken back the battle,
The steaming earth can mull alone and still…
A quiet servant to the human will.
The human will could kill and will
Again—no doubt—if time should
Scurry through the earth, tear up, release
This army for another war.
Who then will cede the earth her blood?
Who, who, will mourn for all this lovely wood?
Hannah K is halfway grown up and enjoys writing fiction, wrangling kids, and generally being alive.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy