‘The Moon’ by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

The prisoner is led

Hands cuffed behind back

Out into the yard

And the glare of noon.

Were he not hooded

He’d know there was a gun

Pointed at his cranium

(Though he can probably guess).

He’s ordered to sit.

A wooden stool awaits him.

His blindfold’s wrenched off,

His head pointed skywards,

He is made to stare

At the shimmering yellow disc

And quietly asked, ‘What’s that?’

His reply’s a shattered whisper…

‘The sun’ At once the gun

Smites him across the temple;

He sucks the unseen cloth between

His teeth to stifle the cries.

Again ‘What’s that?’ Again ‘The sun’.

Again the blow over the head

But harder. And this is how

It’s always been for countless

Centuries and always will be.

Sooner or later the right

Answer will come, if not from him

Then from the next in line, who will

Have had to bury him before

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