Oakfield
by Clayton Pierce

To burn or to bring,
As the great five sit,
Their steam healing the sky?
Myself, shall never see them.

To Bangor they flowed,
Passed Houlton and more,
And were, not, but still are,
Are more, yet more.

They would fly through the woods,
Past fields of pommes de terres,
Holding in their deep gullets,
Food, friends, and family endearments.

Hear the wine and the scream!
In the white of the crash,
Can be seen the day,
Or yet clearly the night.

Return! Better than ever, we,
Shall all see the sky.
Heal friend, but help foes,
And simply, again, be.