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FULL MOON ON SHY'S HILL


The Battle ended one hundred forty years ago.
Men from Maine and Michigan stormed across Battery Lane
And climbed Shy's Hill in bullet thinned ranks.
Men from Tennessee and Alabama held at first.
Then, ammunition gone, they clambered
Backwards down the South side of the Hill.
The dirty-gray ranks reformed a half-mile away
And began the march down Granny White Pike.

Back to their farms in the brown wintry fields
Of the South. The Army evaporated.
That was in December.

It is November and there is a full moon
Over Shy's Hill.
As dusk settles, living room lights
Peer out like watchmen through the trees.
Walking toward the hill,
Into the full moon, I feel a sadness.
Not for the Lost Cause or the tragedy of battle,
Rather for mothers and lovers who would
Have combed the hill after the fight
Hoping not to find their own.
Their dresses dragging over the blood darkened
Ground, now bullet cleared of all but a
Thin shrub that might have side-stepped the
Heat sped scythe.

Was the moon full that night?
I am sure some tidal table could extrapolate
The answer with enough effort.
History could be made accurate.
But for now, I don't want it to be.
I see the full moon over Shy's Hill and
Feel the tender mother's hand holding
The wrist of her shattered boy.
Dark skirted and black bonneted mother
Feeling now the effort of all those years
And knowing she is too old to feel the painful
Loin pull of birth again.
She will give him back to the rich soil.

Decembers later she will lay dying.
She will call his name.
Those in attendance will figure
It's the delirium.
After all, he's been gone.
One angel watching will know
She is calling from that full mooned
Night on Shy's Hill.
Calling for reunion.

It is November now,
And the wind is falling.
The leaves have stirred the air and
I see the silhouettes of
Sentries, bonneted mothers and clattering
Trees in the full moon on Shy's Hill.

Learn more about this author, Martin Heflin.
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