Dogs on cobbled hobs
warmed by early Sun,
their owners folded into news
of things in flux and things to come.

In sleepy hope the town awakes
its people’s heart beats anew,
though leaving slow my own does break
to be just passing through.

They throw in Drummer Lee-Rigby,
To bleed.
Un-defended, just as culled.

His landmark a rain washed gutter,
Which flushes the detritus of human living into a divisive Thames. 
The cities true testament to multiculturalism.

Young Lee-Rigby never knew fresh from his red rose home,
That the pride of his life would out live that day, and be left to his boyhood alone.

And why up-rose to nightly unrest,
White boys with hate unleashed in their breast.

Yet portion of that well-trod street
Will Lee-Rigby forever be,
From blooded tarmac to fiery melee.
From hate filled night,
To grief filled day.

The death of a forgotten land,
And a scarlet line drawn in their sand.

Happily departed
decomposing gently,
from head to toe its started
the rot comes compartmentally.

The soul is in the ether
released from earthly bounds,
no gravity to keep her
the laws of physics she confounds.

What release, what haven
in this state of absolution?
for those who lived so craven
by religions codes unproven.

Let not the stone be rolled away,
let Lazarus sleep long,
for flesh and soul are wrenched today
to realms where they belong.

© Wolfgar 3/2018