In Shongelo Shadow

 

by John Clare

Where has our little Lute gone today?
His dego hoe leans unearthed against
the magnolia.
The family cow swishes flies waiting
for her hay.
Mother hen broods upon the
ungathered clutch.

Clockwise down the furlong
in the heat,
Curt leans into the scots plough.
Molly Mule trying to pull home,
Tempers steeled and getting hot.

At the back of the forty field,
Marzell mends the broken barbs.
Muscles fight refusing to yield
to wires breaking times so hard.

Under the cool porch Irene and
Hazel pretend,
The Kitty Cat congregation
gathers near.
All await from heaven a word
to the unwashed send!
Pass the plate! Your maker fear!

Across the highway at the store,
Earnest awaits the Trailways on
old highway thirty-five.
Too soon to send his sons to
distant shores.
Final stop, Homewood! the driver
cries.

To the Shongelo shade Lute has
gone.
So far from his dear mothers
call.
As the Chuck Wills Widow sings
her mournful song,
A shadow rises in the darkened
hall.

Then clearly he hears joy from
the old home place.
The Shongelo shadows lift,
gone for good.
Rest safe little Lute in a
loving embrace.
Mother has returned and
welcomes you back to
Homewood.

At the early age of 14 on August 1st,1937 Luther Ray Stokes,my father, lost his mother, Ethel Marie Wike Stokes as a result of a blood clot.
His father, Earnest William Stokes was a farmer and owner for a time of Stokes Store across from their home on highway 35, which they moved to from their original homesite. My father had two older brothers, Earnest Curtis and James Marzelle,two sisters, Hazel Marie Wolf and Esther Irene Bradford. Of these, only my father and Irene live.
In 1939 Earnest married Beatrice Boykin and they had four children, William Clark,
Jimmie Boykin, Billy Ferrell and Mary Carol Watkins, all alive except Billy.
Shongelo is a spring fed lake a few miles from Homewood, the Choctaw Indian name meaning a place of cypress. It is a beautiful jewel of a place in central Mississippi.Lute is the pet name that his family called my father. What usually happened under the cool porch, was Luther Ray, who later became a Methodist minister, would preach the service to the cats. As of today, my father lies in the VA hospital in Gainesville with a massive stroke that happened on Monday. My Aunt Irene is in a nursing home in Laurel,Miss with congestive heart failure and other complications.
It is in their honor that this poem is written.