Auckland Poetry.com

The Psychopath

The lane is siesta empty, meanders forever amongst
olive trees and budding almond flowers, but afar I see
a black clad man, an ominous shadow, marching
towards me. He has got one hand in his pocket, a knife?
Bet he is a psychopath out to see if he can kill someone
without being caught. Nowhere to run fields are soggy
and he’s younger than me; he will catch up and plunge
a knife in me when I’m exhausted. When he stops and
looks around to be sure there are no witnesses, I quickly
bend down and pick up a big stone I can hit him over
the head with it, I think I’m stronger than him. He looks
tense as he passes me on the opposite side of the lane,
I stop pretend to look at the sky, can’t let him thrust his
knife in my back. He’s running now, see him disappear
around a sharp bend but I wait till sure he ain’t coming
back, I better arm myself with a kitchen knife next time
I go out the world is full of bad people.

A Way

I saw a narrow side road unused now but
scars from cartwheels are still visible. On
both sides’ walls have partly fallen down,
no longer protecting or guarding anything,
obvious except, perhaps, memories; yet
the walls, with yellows spring flowers on
looked graceful as the easterly softly blew.

I followed the road, half an hour or so, till
it ended on a field of cardinal poppies and
Spanish bluebells. The road, pointless but
lucidly romantic, tells of a time gone by,
but whether it was a good or hard time it
stays quiet, leaves it up to me to make
sense of the past and remember it gently.