SPG (29/10/1987 / Solihull, England)

The Road

His face is the dry gravel
Road where he lives,
And upon which
Piety has been drawn.

Abraham got off light.

People don’t bother to tell him
That he shouldn’t drink
So much; they forgive him
When he makes a scene.

They feel pity
Or are scared that he
Might lead them along
His broken half-mile;
Whose red rocks,
His tears have fallen between.

That morning when
His daughter had run into
The kitchen, weeping so hard
She could not speak

He followed his shadow
Along that familiar route
And learnt its every inch;
Every bloody rock.

The road told him the story
Before he reached its end.
Each hoof-mark was a stab in his chest,
The scuffed trail; a scythe at his throat.

Now beyond the mountain pass
Lies an animal
Still strapped with old rope:
A cross on its back
A bullet in its head.

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