Little War'

On a pedestal that outlooks the sea,
visions of a milky clear lake ween,
with fisherman by the creek.

Damned for a reservoir,
some time in 1944,
the little stream became a war.

With protests and prejudice man and man fought.
Wars of word and paper,
blood was splought.

Fate is unexplainable,
how it weaves and makes its way.
Its subtle grasp on life is hidden,
yet so profound when found,
especially in May.

As Farmers and country men gathered,
the good fight was the way,
the flight of farmers farming,
the sounds of church bells alarming.

Through the sound of hunger long off quenched,
memories of a war were entrenched.
Side by side, men died,
Wounds and murders, wondering why...

Yet from a pedestal that outlooks a man made sea,
visions of milky moments wrapped up inside a dream,
fishermen come empty,
smiles are plenty,
as fishermen leave trendy.