The plague raged from the west to east

where once we'd flattered us sound and safe,

and those great gulfs, the burial pits,

were its footsteps, tokens of advancement.

The prints groaned huge and heavier

come the closeness and height of summer;

feeding by dark, the dead carts tumbling

their cargo to a cold promiscuity.

In scarcely a fortnight a thousand corpses

sated the cavities, blanketed by those

who, appraised of near demise,

or prey to some vertiginous fugue

simply lay or threw themselves on the heaps

seeking swift expiry. Others made stupid

by insupportable grief, melancholic weight

causing the head to sink in degrees

until barely seen above shoulders.

And the babes poisoned at suck

on the plague-spotted breasts;

incessant roars and lamentations;

the naked raving plunge to water.

 

From this we fled; fled north so's to keep

the sun at our backs and wind in our face;

went in scout of some space to wait out

the distemper, in faith it would falter

come chill of December or for want

of flesh to assuage its hunger.

Each village obliged us to parley

from a distance, always at a distance,

the townsfolk attempting to forbid

our passage for fear of infection -

have us wander starving hither to thither.

As availing to request a soul to stand fast

in a house incandescent with fire.

For the stronger enemy lay behind,

its pestilent breath at our necks

compelled us to subterfuge,

bluff, smoke and musketry,

as animals puff up their size in jeopardy.

At length we forged a way out to the forest,

pitched camp and endured until frost and blizzard

had purged the contagious footholds.

 

When the plague had abated

they all sang God's praises

and soon forgot His Works.