Hanging Blain

 
As I see people, I imagine how they'll die.
Not how they go, but what enlightenment
they canonise death with, and what they leave behind,
but not you.
Always the death of winter on your coat.

My smile lasts longer than yours;
not enough thoughts running through me.

When you are at peace, you chase birds
with no murderous intention, not like the girls.
Weary of humans and wisely so,
you'd be much more relaxed if you were more dense.
Even as a puppy you were nobody's
but loved all your kind.

This morning on the stretch of garden
you finally found the right ground to squat on
but before you finished your nightmare begun.
With its heavy gnarr right behind you on the road
you scurried in the other direction. Stopped and turned.
There it was; illuminating the whole street with its noise
and its countless, ugly lights.

Your eyes shot wide, like hatchlings' mouths
so I save you from running and put you on the lead.
We walk around the corner and teams of schoolchildren
are walking straight at you; you hit the floor like an egg,
flat, on your quivering knees.
The sky is too far, the ground,
too high, and the lead is a noose
not quite tight enough. Mute and helpless--
suffocating in the dark morning's bombardment,
I drag you from the world
that moves angrily around you, tightening your rope
and I, the hangman, am as free as you;
condemned and dangling at both ends.