The Crime
Her tread even lighter than a field mouse,
Her gown more bluer than a cloudless sky;
She stiffens like the cat about to pounce:-
Right now...another wretched soul to die.
Hand as Michelangelo's hand of God;
Outstretched arm pausing momentarily;
And in that dreadful instant some poor sod
Staring back: eyes imploring, "no...not me".
The awful deed, that last despairing look --
An elderly generation betrayed!
Constant self-rebuking and endless tears;
For in her well thumbed, cherished book
There is no solace found upon a page...
Just a guilt borne unto her final years.
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