The Noose

The Noose.

By the river, a big tree; on its strongest bough
there is still mark in the bark of a rope. They
hung people here, great spectacle the whole
town came to see: “Good riddance” they said
about the hanged, spat and felt like tough guys.

To be a tree is like being god things are done
in its name and is forever silent, except when
wind drizzles through its foliage there’s a faint
whisper, a moment’s hesitation, as the unsaid is
understood; and the river runs towards the sea.

No one is hanged from the tree now, the scar
of the past is almost healed, not since colour TV
came it offers more distraction, the condemned
is given a lethal injection, which offers no drama
of torchlight, lynching and the stench of fear.