A Purpose in the Hollow

Too late to save the seeping life of day,

when moonlight spills in tricks of hoary shine,

a rebellion bleeds beneath its rage.

Between the street’s glow and the shade it swims,

its motion fleeting as felled slants of light

sweep across the flagstones in relentless chase.

Whilst footfall pounds against the cobbled stone,

and beats the cadence of an anguished song,

its quarry falls before insistent will.

Stood still between the contours of shadows,

where all is hushed but for his heaving breath,

he bows beneath the weight of cruel intent.

As hands to fists that bray the lifeless form,

shape crimson moulds beneath the silver sun,

and puncture life with thrusts of a pointed blade.

Until bruised and steeped in a bloodstained hue,

they are pressed into pocketfuls of nothing,

restless for the remnants of the day.

While middle England rests in content sleep,

its children seek a purpose in the hollow;

denied them through the motions of the day.

Though strangers in a small square of being,

they acquiesce to an ambiguous yearn,

to belong beneath the smoulder of a midday sun.

Through a portent of the fractured day,

where blue smoke embers haunt the cerise sky,

slow bleeding colours birth the working hours;

when they must live the dreams of elders,

through the dint of toil and token craft,

and cast time until the setting of the light.