A poem about colonists trying to survive against a superior enemy.
|Quickly news spreads that the scouts have returned
with location of a bountiful supply of food.
By hard work a month’s provisions can be earned.
Hundreds form an orderly line – none acting rude.
The colonists all act with one mind,
knowing instinctively their survival
depends upon seizing any opportunity they find
to store found food before action by their rival.
For it is a harsh, hostile land in which
they live – hidden, living in the dark, behind
high, impenetrable walls, maintaining their niche
against a vastly superior enemy who is unkind.
They stream along in a long, linear line,
scaling their protective wall, out a narrow crack,
down the bright other side – the raid is going fine.
They traverse the broad open expanse leaving no track.
Following the trail marked by a scout,
they meet allies returning loaded down
with all the food each can carry. There’s no doubt
this raid will succeed, unless by the enemy they’re found.
For against this enemy they have no defense.
It may crush dozens with a swipe of its appendage,
or on the wind , a hot shot of death – sudden and intense.
On staying unseen, their survival usually does hinge.
Hour after hour, the colonists persistently toil in silence.
Rarely has the enemy not attacked for this long, but wait ...
the black flag of death today arrives without violence.
The food was a trap. Poison! And they carried home the bait.
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