My grandmother tells me stories.
Of thriving communities.
She speaks of farms and fishermen.
My parents, reminisce.
Of events and families long gone.
For the people of this land.
Have been replaced once again.
With aid from government hand.
In an age long past this was Indian land.
Then when colonies came.
They were given a gruesome ultimatum.
Still many remnants reside.
Their ancestors residing on one end of a continuum.
having traded culture their life.
Far afterwards this quaint cove became.
Home to a small group.
who traded goods with the land from whence they came.
Many areas in this region.
Carry names from this third wave.
Douglastown, York, New Carlisle of Rene Levesque fame.
Each an anglophone community.
cradled at their heart.
a church, a means of identity and identification.
Now my Precious Rosebridge.
The land where my ancestors first Indian.
Then English lived and died.
As the former did, The English are leaving.
Meeting that unpleasant ultimatum.
the land colonized again by a new people with the same agenda.
The church lies empty, pastor gone.
The homes contain ancient men and women.
Who remember a different time.
Incapable of visiting a hospital.
Due to barriers imposed long after them.
They pass on and leave the land to distant children.
Who sell it to the new colonizers.
Those who claim the land was always theirs.
YOU ARE READING
poetic mistakes
Puisijust my musings Feel free to leave comments or whatever but don't expect me to do anything about it. This is just a place I put what I write
