Aug 2016
The mother ***** died at the side
of the road, another hit-and-run
victim. Her still warm fur
unblemished, luxuriant, russet,
now with life's bloom on it,
will soon be a shelter for worms,
must turn to dust,
her milk-heavy teats return to earth.
The hungry cubs whose birth
gave fulfilment to mother-love
will cease their shrill
unanswered pleading, become victims
in their turn. I can't pass by
and do nothing. Lay her at least
on grass, where soul of beast
may be at home,
not on concrete.
of the road, another hit-and-run
victim. Her still warm fur
unblemished, luxuriant, russet,
now with life's bloom on it,
will soon be a shelter for worms,
must turn to dust,
her milk-heavy teats return to earth.
The hungry cubs whose birth
gave fulfilment to mother-love
will cease their shrill
unanswered pleading, become victims
in their turn. I can't pass by
and do nothing. Lay her at least
on grass, where soul of beast
may be at home,
not on concrete.
I originally wrote this to be in a rather strange, syllable-counted and rhymed format, but it came out very artificial, and I didn't like it. Re-arranging it like this, however, put the thymes in an irregular pattern, which seemed to suit it better, and did away with the odd line lengths. The rather abrupt last line seems to me appropriate for the subject.
