Sirens on the Gum Swamp
John Clare Stokes
Not a land for the smooth of hand
Slash pine sap oozes into the sand
Timber rattlers under palmetto lurk
Wood rider tram lines etched in dirt.
Rare the pines that bear the V scars
That held the pots that caught the tar
For paper a hundred in a day now fall
Turpentine stills only the eldest recall.
The old oak stands mark the homesteads
Cracker culture long since forgotten dead
A few of the split rail fences remain
Soon to fall as the sirens reclaim.
And in the night up Gum Swamp way
A cross cut saw is heard as the pines sway
They say it's the ghost of the two
A hush as the sirens come wailing through.
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