The well’s dry,
The kitchen closed.
A stiff limb sticking out from the floor,
The dirt’s being shovelled away.
There’s a crowd milling around the empty space,
People looking for a familiar face.
Orange cones keep at bay,
Inquisitive faces not going anywhere.
There’s not a word, a cry, an intelligible sound,
The ring breaks, the tension abates,
The faces look away not wanting to turn around.
Another town, another place, in a tiny blue cottage,
There’s a man, his whiskey, and his warm pleasant wife.
Staring into the fire, he mutters:
“He hasn’t called as yet. I hope everything’s ok…”
_V. 22-03-2016
Righting Writing 