THE CONDEMNED MAN
- Jun 21
- 1 min read
By Millie Graham
The grey looms upon the horizon
Morning graces the grisly gallows.
The hangman, hooded, haughty,
Checks the rope, sets the trapdoor.
Boots upon cobbles,
A shuffling step,
Soldiers bring the condemned,
Wrists bound, eyes hollow.
On the scaffold he stands,
Mouth tight, soul dead,
His first taste of fresh air in months
Tainted by the bitter rope scratching at his neck.
Drums hold a steady rhythm, the song of his death.
The trapdoor drops, so does he.
There’s a creak and snap, he hits the dirt hard.
Everyone stares. What? How?
The sun breaks the grey with a welcome gleam
And they see the hollow beam.
Damned termites! They ate it thin!
A shrug, “oh well, it’s the block for him!”