A LOVELY YOUNG MAN

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A lovely young man…

the bloody arc from his hammer traces itself across the ceiling;

down the wall.

His mother lies broken, broken that she may not be privy to his shame;

the love of his life lies broken on the turn of a card:

had it come up trumps she could have slept on, as it was, everything was now lost

and he couldn’t have her waking to it tomorrow.

‘A lovely young man’, my mother kept saying

(keeping  the outrageous act at a distance)

whilst his step-father went out and bought himself a gun.

A last photograph  -

her murderer

kissing her cheek