At the end of the garden,

In the long grass,

There lies, too close to touch,

A skeleton of a man

My neighbour shot ten years ago.

Some things we think; some things we know.

Still, we mind our own business,

Keep ourselves to ourselves.

 

We don’t talk about it.

At least, not much.

 

I sit in the pub, with one straight glass

Nursed all evening long in my hand,

Counting every sip that I take.

I put away my memories

Of passions tamed and questions posed

To friends; we once in deck chairs dozed.

Nowadays we pray no answers come,

For pity’s sake.

 

On quiet days, counting hours

In uneventful modern times,

You sense the civilised attack,

Of a cool hand on the shoulder;

The unmistakable background noise

Of the locals growing older.

Too tired to wonder or care,

Or argue back.