Fog hangs thick over the river
Thames. I strike the uneven cobblestones
with my silver cane
and wipe the mist from my face
as I hum Chopin’s “Nocturne No. 2”
to the count of the tower’s three gongs.
I peek at a cracked, discarded mirror
to trace my scar and finger-comb
my thick, coal-black hair.
Nerves, my nerves! I jump
at the nearby bark of a mangy dog,
shaking me from my serenity.
A woman who smells of rubbish
comes near; my repulsion will make
it easier to slit her throat and rifle her bag
but her eyes are dark and menacing,
Like Bellona hunting the hunter. Slash!
With snake-like suddenness matching
us, fang against fang,
Her smut smeared face reveals her glee
at beating me in the death draw.
The pulse of my blood splashes
upon the stones and mud
as I fall in a muffled thud
and see in my mind’s eye, a field
of harebell flowers to inhale
a final, fragrant breath.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 