Here Below
by Bill Stinson
The gale that blew,
Our skiff turned round,
Three corpses floating
Heaven bound.
Dear Sally
Of her witness penned
A letter grieving
Loss of friend.
But spirits anchored
Drift and sink
And breathe the water
Others drink.
From Alewife run
To freshet flow,
We count the years off
Here below.
Now, are we getting
Through to you?
Can you hear
Our hapless crew?
The shriek of the bald,
The call of the loon,
Our voices imprinted
In desolate tune.
When you look down,
You see right through us.
The fish aren’t biting,
You never knew us.
When we look up,
We see your boat,
And tug at your line
To get your goat.
And sometimes when
The ice runs thick,
We burp and gurgle,
Crack and kick.
But mostly we just
Drift and pace,
And long for Essie’s
Blissful face.
How cursed
Her memory’s o’ershadowed
By our regretful
Death song hallowed.
To all who read
These words, beware!
Of Seven Tree Pond
And traveling there.
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Author's note:
This poem is based on an event that occurred in Union, Maine on May 13, 1793, in which three women drowned on Seven Tree Pond upon returning from the funeral of a friend. For a complete description, see John L. Sibley's History of the Town of Union, Maine, 1851, pp. 69-71.
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