The Last Moments of Michael

Michael’s time is nearly up He’s found the perfect place and it will soon be dark. Memories of skimming stones Black stones across deep slow water Picking wild black berries in the wet fields A huge pile of dead lambs beneath a great tree. Looking for paint in a box full of black Over and over again: tubes of black He only wanted to find the yellow Nothing but black. He squints for a while at the setting sun then steps out He jerks and strangles at the end of his rope His bulging eyes shoot through with blood and roll skyward A great white bird flies low over him Black eyes stare into his, a devils shriek Its underside a flash of lemon yellow His last thought is No man could create such a perfect colour And neither could God.