Runaway

The grey men came and
asked of him, “Surr –
‘ave ye seen th’ wee boy”,
haunting their sincerity.
“Nay,” said he, who could not lie,
“Not since yesteryear...”

“Oh please,” a veiled voice
inside a wish appealed, “Was
he alright?” She, he thought;
“I’d say he was,” he said
although he knew it wasn’t
quite the truth.

“Would ye oblige us if he
comes again,” they asked
and slowly went away – the
one who turned and almost
smiled, he wasn’t sure,
had tried to wave

The boy within his eyes
shut tight and mind a fist
clenched anxiously on wounds
too raw for just release had
blinked a hint of what
he’d almost heard

There’ll be no retribution
lad he breathed, you’re free;
secure from words condemned
and ancient deeds and
they whose want would
plant the seed
© 28 June 2010, I. D. Carswell