An English tale
At the end of the garden,
In the long grass,
There lies, too close to touch,
A skeleton of a man
My neighbour shot ten years ago.
Some things we think; some things we know.
Still, we mind our own business,
Keep ourselves to ourselves.
We don’t talk about it.
At least, not much.
I sit in the pub, with one straight glass
Nursed all evening long in my hand,
Counting every sip that I take.
I put away my memories
Of passions tamed and questions posed
To friends; we once in deck chairs dozed.
Nowadays we pray no answers come,
For pity’s sake.
On quiet days, counting hours
In uneventful modern times,
You sense the civilised attack,
Of a cool hand on the shoulder;
The unmistakable background noise
Of the locals growing older.
Too tired to wonder or care,
Or argue back.