road kill

Roadkill
the wizened winter landscape was now green
and amongst olive trees, long-legged sheep grazed;
their pastor and, on occasions, executioner, sat on
a boulder casting dreams into the future man and
beast, rustic peace, pity I didn't have a camera.
On my way to the village to buy the papers, a sheep
had been run over by a truck, with its stomach burst
open and its content glinting in the sun, it was still
alive. Ah, you dumb animal abandoned by everyone
it looked at me without any hope of deliverance,
so I reversed my car and ran over its head.
As the skull was crushed, eyes popped out, landed
at the middle of the road had eyes to see
 A shock, this made it shudder a long rent in
the asphalt wench black tears trickled.
Quickly, I threw the sheep's eyes into the thicket that instantly transformed into a field of tinkling bluebells.
Suddenly, a road gang of small, denim-clad men with big hats appeared,
and bad paid, lived on road kills. Expertly strewing soft sand on blood, filling cracks with healing asphalt, off they drove with
their dinner.
 The blind road
 had no knowledge of that
had just occurred, it was up to me to remember.