Gettysburg

Posted by Brad Osborne on April 25, 2020 · 19 Comments 

 

 

I see their ghosts in morning mist

That washes across battlefield

Where Confederates do persist

And Union soldiers will not yield

 

Across the fields of Sherfy’s farm

Marchs an army in rebel grey

Intent on doing warring harm

To any Blues that fight that day

 

And in that dawn, I hear the roar

Union grapeshot sent from Culp’s Hill

It echoes with a death assured

Down valley where their blood does spill

 

The mist rises like cannon smoke

Ghostly screams of the dying shrill

And with the light that dawn has broke

You can see they stand there still

 

The long rows of ancient headstones

Great lives carved into monument

A hallowed place filled with young bones

Turning point of the great dissent

 

 

 

Filed under Poetry · Tagged with battlefield, blood, Blue, civil war, Confederate, Gettysburg, Grey, headstones, historical, monuments, poem, Poetry, soldiers, strict form poetry, union