The Find
A metallic muzzle
breaking through a marshy bog;
an unlikely find out here
in the rain-riddled moor.
I finger dig the soft ground,
reveal the snout of a short barrel,
clay clogged, emerging. -
haul out the rest,
a revolver!
Who hid or threw this?
This ‘who done it’ out here
in the wind-swept nowhere.
Bluing worn away,
steel beneath dented and pitted,
firing pin corroded
yet heavy still
with unknowable sin.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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