Coming to the South I wonder
where did all the stories go?
Like a giant library
the marsh mud holds legends of old times
the trees drink memories
buried deep in their great oak trunks
Living history
has died
their footsteps have long been erased by the tides
Were their deaths peaceful, I wonder?
That there are no ghosts to haunt us
with their history
Drowned by petroleum spills
and dolled up as white sand beaches
Faces changing beyond recognition
© 2024 Marieke de Koker
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