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Pallbearer's Guilt

by

Rusty Broadspear

Black pointed tails flap and slap with each gust,

Giant angry bat wings, tethered, cannot break free.



One, two, three…………………



He stands erect, in one hand he grips a weekend bag.

His top hat reveals a scrawny neck and neat hairline.



Seven, eight, nine………………



Thoughts of loneliness emanate, radiate with sadness.

Shirt sleeves escape the bag, waving, wanting to be seen.



Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen……………



Unmoved, eyes open or closed, he faces the ancient tower.

In the winter sunlight, he resembles a shadow, an outline.



Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine……………



Shirt sleeves embrace his legs, begging freedom or motion.

Unseen bellows blow the day into fury, frenzy, alive.



Forty three, forty four, forty five……………………



High gaping windows stare down at him, uncaring, blind.

A pidgeon momentarily takes refuge on a sill and then is gone.



Fifty nine, sixty, sixty one………………………



Mumbled words fade in and out of the wind strewn mayhem,

Maybe curses or verses or a prayer destined for Heaven.



Seventy five, seventy six, seventy seven………………



I was behind him and above, captivated, fascinated,

Remote, detached, unfeeling but anticipation grew.



Eighty, eighty one, eighty two…………



I heard my name, looked up, saw my fall,

Flittingly, his face at the window; the rest I could ignore.



Ninety two, ninety three, ninety four……



He visibly shuddered, screaming words of sorrow,

Towards the tower he stumbled and blundered.



Ninety eight, ninety nine…….. he approached his end,

As rains rode the winds and the heavens thundered.

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