It sat upon Virginia’s shore
stalked by the sea,
it’s lichen pale with salt
bark that broke the sand,
a haggard frame stark against
the last horizon land.
The butchered stumps contaminate
a hacked and broken field,
their sapwood leaking silence,
the birds atop them mute,
crowned with their annual rings
of righteous guilt and root.
But there it waits branded by
the blight of unknown fear,
a desolation beacon
when the other trees were cleared,
by then it was decided
what pilgrim eyes would see
CROATOAN
scratched into the tree.