the Hessian Trench (1778)

we saw that the snake vine had
overwhelmed the slender tree
like a father Superior who had spanked a child
bound and gagged by his bedside.
we were far from a narrow gravel road and the stream we crossed,
looking for the ghosts of Hessian soldiers and their trench.
walking like genial dwarfs through the woods,
we kept trying to follow a faint trail of leaves,
descending and sidestepping and stopping; it was
after twelve noon but before one when a weak sun
tried to loosen us up with some warmth.
we came close to other vines, ducked and jumped,
continued past brambles, got stuck, got unstuck, stepped over fallen logs,
and occasionally would hear a whispering pine.
we found no other hikers, no one else out to explore,
no deer, no bandits, no dead red fox, no soldiers.
we climbed a huge rock, slipping our way to the summit and
our embrace more emotional than rational.  Like lookouts,
we peered into the forest for a clue, steady in the breeze.
the Hessian trench must be somewhere, and the ghosts,
while waiting, are still hiding in their dungeon.