is he
The smooth ice red light
Flicks on
Flicks off
Flicks on
Flicks off
And yet the light isn’t red
But white
The red is a moving
Fine dark line
Of crimson paint
Trailing down a temple
A brow a cheek
Running round to a protruding chin
Dripping down a creased and dirty shirt
Some hangs to the five o’clock shadow
Except it’s not five
It’s nine
And the crowd gathers to see
Their breaths in the cold cruel night air
Speak as one
In the combined flashing blue red and white
Of emergency vehicles
A fairground attraction
With no rides
And no one to take the money
The music of sirens and people shouting
Goes round and round in their heads
And people ask
He’s not stirring is he…?
Martin Elder
Thu 11th Jan 2018 19:41
Thanks Ray much appreciated. I have tried to capture just a snippet of peoples attitudes to witnessing the aftermath of what goes on after an accident or fatality.
Cheers mate
Martin