Without a Trace. A Poem by Sandra Bunting

A time of caution when afflictions
went untreated, uncategorised:
stay away from bears, wolves, lepers,
people with impetigo, pink eye, lockjaw,
lice, the clumsy, the soft in the head,
drunks, gossips and unmarried mothers.

The eternal struggle to survive,
farms connected only by water
or a rough path through woods-
spruce, pine, hemlock, cedar, fir.
Distant from another, three
dwellings hold their families close
around fires, as the snow flies outside
in winter, and trees dance and bend
as if walking or declaring war.

To eke out a living in summer
boats ease into the bay to fish,
many hands join to work small
vegetable plots, a few herbs,
grains for the animals out in the fields,
then chores of preserving, pickling
curing, smoking, repairs to the barn,
church- the only reason to
unite with others, take them
down the shore to hear news,
have a laugh, break the isolation.

On the nights of the full moon
one of the farmers from up there
could be seen on bay ice or woodland path
coming down on all fours.
When death finally claimed him
he was laid in unconsecrated ground
to communicate with the dun-coloured bull
escaped from up the hill
every time the gate was left open.

Not a trace now of his wife who died young,
a daughter, a housekeeper, her son.
No sign of life either at the other farms,
only overgrown paths, fields gone wild,
broken down doors swaying in the wind.