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Saturday, 19 May 2012


Out of the past,
an icy blast of memory,
someone I knew,
someone I never wanted to see again.

Standing in the doorway,
a self-satisfied, knowing grin,
a closed chapter
reopened, demanding a new ending.

Out of the past,
revenge comes calling,
the pursuer's upper hand,
the fugitive cornered and caught.

In the evening's stillness,
a final bullet fired,
one man standing,
the other lying dead on a kitchen floor.

Who lived and who died?
It won't take Sherlock Holmes
to deduce that dead men
can't write poems.................

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