In the paranoia of Major's Hill Park
the trees are talking to me again
of the men beaten by bats,
sliced across their knees like axes.
Young pines fall screaming like that,
the trees say. They speak
of heads bashed and feet running
with the fear of sap.
They have seen blood soaked
into the grain; should we
feel shame? they ask me.
Colonel By, bronze arms catching
an Ottawa sunset,
yells from the Hill: No,
before he throws it back out
onto the river.
The trees and the Colonel are asleep now;
only the fallen leaves and I debate with the stars.
There are no answers.
I may be drunk, but I'm completely sober.