Gettysburg's Last Day

Heat hovered above the ground that July,

Shimmering like a ghostly portal,

Waiting.

Their skin prickled in the itchy wool,

The sweat of mingled fear and fervor,

Trickling.

God’s goodness shone in the rising sun,

But generals had made their own plans,

Strategizing.

The sweet air was driven away by blinding smoke,

Cannon aimed and fired,

Deafening.

Men mottled the field in ragtag shades of gray;

Ill-shod feet stepped out with dread,

Marching.

Tangled field grass grabbed their ankles,

And dips and stones made them clumsy,

Tripping.

A split-rail fence loomed out of the haze

Making easy target of disarrayed men,

Climbing.

Blue hats peeked above a lined stone wall,

Picking off fence-slowed men with rifles,

Flashing.

Emmitsburg Road became a deathbed

Of wounded bodies piled in agony,

Moaning.

Urgently rallying the still-living men,

The “Double Quick” order rang out,

Bugling.

Running ahead, General Armistead sabered his hat,

Like a crazed ghost, 

Leading.

Across the last stretch they ran desperately, 

through the bullet storm,

Raging.

Reaching the stone wall and Union cannon,

The gray-coated general fell, along with his hat,

Dying.

The decisions of generals and actions of soldiers

Left a hellish field of smoke and corpses,

Sickening.

The shimmering door of the ghostly portal

Forever swallowed countless souls,

Closing.

One hundred and sixty-two years crept by,

Bones and bullets beneath soil and crops,

Burying.

I walk the one-mile field today, slowly, 

knowing what lies beneath my feet,

Sobering.

My scuffling steps startle from their hidden places

Gray doves who warn with whistling wings,

Mourning.

Butterflies flutter above invisible graves

All over the field and across my path,

Transforming.

Bowing his head, the sun colors a benediction in the sky,

While birds sing vespers and crickets chant,

Remembering.

Mourning Doves and Butterflies: Reflections on Walking across a Battlefield

On the afternoon I walked the mile across that battlefield from the third and final day at Gettysburg, two symbolic creatures surrounded me in abundance, capturing my attention: Mourning Doves and butterflies. In the field grew a crop of what looked like soybeans. These plants were the grave markers of thousands of men who died here 162 years ago. My scuffling steps flushed numerous Mourning Doves who had been hiding beneath the foliage. Their wings whistled an alarm as they scattered. Everywhere there were butterflies hovering and flitting from plant to plant, like a field full of tiny angel wings. 

Mourning Doves and butterflies. The symbolism was not lost on me, and I had the uncanny feeling that I was in the presence of heavenly messengers. With their haunting calls, Mourning Doves bring to mind sorrow and loss, while they are also thought to bridge the gap between the physical and spiritual worlds. These gentle birds have also come to mean peace, hope, and new beginnings. Throughout history, butterflies have represented the souls of men, while their metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly makes them a compelling symbol of transformation, rebirth, resurrection, and liberation. Some cultures imagine butterflies as messengers from the spirit world. 

I’d like to think that the presence of these two creatures was a gift to me - allowing me to witness healing messengers from the other side of the veil. The symbolism of Mourning Doves and butterflies was a striking reminder of deep sorrow at the loss of so many men, but not without the reassurance of the resurrection and liberation of these poor souls who died in the midst of unfathomable trauma and agony. It’s just God’s way to bring good out of bad, to transform a field of blood and bones to quiet hope and subtle beauty.

By Heather J. Willis, author