Wracked with guilty grief I drove the old
Triumph Dolomite down to the cliffs.
To be honest, I had half a mind
to park it on the edge, release the handbrake
then push it off, if the mists were right.
That night, the coast was like
layers of torn wallpaper, like
a spare room for a baby that never arrived.
I parked up, stepped out
with my windcheater pulled high round my cheeks.
The grass was squall-damp and lush.
Then I heard it -
through the mist, I heard it,
the lank thud of clappers
corroded in the saline currents of the Styx,
the hiss of wet grass under mouldering hooves,
vengeful braying.
'You did this,' I heard them saying.
No ifs.
No butts.
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