And he?

As the moment decreed approaches,
Racing past some foreign coaches,

He will not see... that his time draws near...

The kids will swing upon low branches,
And she will go about her day…

While on the hard and grey stone chips…
A white car slips…
And slides…
From here to there unguided.

There will of course be the dreadful sound...
The metallic clack and thud...
Spilt blood...

The awful screech of tyres and brakes...
Ticking, slowing, spinning wheels...

And a hiss…
Drip… drip…
Time is dripping away.

The breeze will play its last and cruel trick,
Blowing the small pink note into the grassy field beside the road...

And the sunlight?

It will glisten on the blood red spill…
But there will

Become silence.

Still…

At least the medic will see and feel,
The small patch of stubble on his neck…
And it will be still and cool beneath the medic's finger tip…

And down the medic's cheek a tear will slip...
And be quickly wiped away…

For this...

Was. The. Day.

© Griffonner 2024