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.
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