GUN
A metallic muzzle
breaking through a scrubby bog,
an unlikely find out here
in these rain-riddled marshlands,
I finger-dig the soft ground
to reveal the snout of a snub-nosed
clay clogged revolver.
Who hid or threw this,
this ‘who done it’ out here
is an unsolved mystery
laid to rest
in these acres
of wind swept nowhere.
Bluing worn away,
steel beneath dented and pitted,
firing pin corroded,
an old 38 special,
yet heavy still
with some
unknowable sin.
I took it home -
cleaned it up a bit,
but a week later
buried it
under a weeping willow.
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