Lynching In Oconee


Moore’s Ford Lynching, 7.26.1946 Version 2

There aren’t a lot of prayers rising

I ain’t sung before, at least sincere,

Hang me in a meadow for my soul

To dry, katydids and sparrows shout

Over the wheatgrass and river oats,

Pass me over to the laurel

And hemlock so I can watch

The Appalachee flow all green to brown,

Coneflowers and aster pave

The red dirt banks,

Scratch my nails on the rocks

Here so I can follow my way

Back home again,

A low sun breaths out

Last shadows left for me to see,

Nothing is as dark eyed

As this stupid lonely dusk,

Curtains draw out on the horizon

And the Southern stories

Of Cormac McCarthy line up

Like Walton County pines

Waiting for the ax to fall,

Smell of smoke,

Remington crack and wet rope,

All I saw before the light died out

Was this beautiful Southern land,

And then,

Four dead, and an unborn killed,

Dared argue with a neighbor,

Now just a road marker,

A pastoral song more alive

By Moore’s Ford Road, shot or hung,

Where trickle meets a stream

And at last I’ve run out,

Years before JFK and Johnson

Rose to clear the way,

There’s never a good lynching,

Tick, tick, tick…..

First it was race and now it’s wages,

The winds snap and fade.

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