The Crime

Her tread even lighter than a field mouse, Her gown more bluer than a cloudless sky; She stiffens like the cat about to pounce:- Right now...another wretched soul to die. Hand as Michelangelo's hand of God; Outstretched arm pausing momentarily; And in that dreadful instant some poor sod Staring back: eyes imploring, "no...not me". The awful deed, that last despairing look -- An elderly generation betrayed! Constant self-rebuking and endless tears; For in her well thumbed, cherished book There is no solace found upon a page... Just a guilt borne unto her final years.