The sentence
is to be delivered,
like an unwelcome call
in the middle
of the night.
The judge looks
with that familiar look,
eyes cast down,
in a moment
of justice,
words hanging
ready for
the expected call.
The criminal,
jaunty and daring,
weak and scared,
in a suit
he has never
worn before,
looks at the judge,
waiting for the words,
eyes averted,
eyes seeing
the judge’s eyes,
and mind thinking
strange thoughts
about a life not lived,
and the terror to come.
First here at 14,
this room and
those words,
about to drip
like acid drops,
are as familiar
as the desperate loss
and the unrequited longing
for all he has
never had.
He will be going back:
back to the cell,
back to the life
he knows and
doesn’t know,
back to the
steel boundaries
that hide his fear.
The words
begin to drop,
but he does
not hear;
he looks instead
to the window
of the courtroom
and sees a bird
land on a branch
of a nearby tree
and then fly away again.
27/8/2016