On into Friday of his dying
“Go, do what you must do.”
And I turned away with diverted eyes.
And I, going about my business,
Walk out through darkening dusk.
In the garden a guide to the blind
Who know not what they do,
I sound the smack of lips, and hear:
“Ah, betray me with a kiss.”
The noises of the guard,
Jangling scabbards, harnesses,
And sound of hooves,
Recede into the cloak of dark.
All is as it should be now.
The garden sounds return;
Then recede. One birdsong,
Knifelike, cuts thru the cloak.
©2016 by Richard J. (Rick) Hilber. All rights reserved.
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