Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    

Death of a Tourist

 

That was him: linen jacket and straw hat,

Walking the unfamiliar broad street,

Feeling warm glimmers of discovery,

As after the excitement of first love.

The fresh breath of new air turned up the light,

The touch of hot brickwork made him tingle.

The quiet history of sounds took hold

And soon enough contentment overflowed.

 

But by then his fate had been decided;

The rifle was already primed to shoot.

Its sight glinted through an open window;

It cowered, upstairs, in weapon-grade heat.

He has no place here, nor his brief pleasure,

His flickering smile or his memories.

One shot, seen only from the flight of birds,

Will bring us back a precious status quo.

 

Some things are well worth dying for. Was this?

Unnoticed, lost souls dust the grey road down.

The pale relations go about affairs;

The moon rises again, as it did before.

A grizzled handyman pursues his rounds,

While harassed doctors cover up the scars.

The image of a shallow tomb endures;

In catacombs and corners, life goes on.

◄ Primrose Hill

Foundations ►

Comments

Profile image

Stephen Gospage

Mon 23rd Nov 2020 17:54

Thanks for the thoughtful comments, Rose and Paul, and to others for the likes.

I'm still not sure where this is set, and I wrote it! New York, Khartoum?
Of course, he may not be a tourist. Work in progress, as is life.

Time for a lie down......

<Deleted User> (9882)

Sun 22nd Nov 2020 17:12

Another of your very unusual story-rides Stephen and I enjoyed every centimetre of the distance,







Rose ?

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message