ON SUCH A DAY AS EXECUTIONS FALL

On such a day as executions fall,
Two tiny puddles, oval, silver, mute.
Born on ground as black as Magogs caul,
Ragged orphan, guileless, dying, nude.
This ill-formed offspring of a careless god,
Which, ripped like thunder from a spartan womb
And shed like spittle on the dark, cold sod,
Lies sombre and still by a greedy tomb.
Thus do our children call the hangman’s skill,
For since the child sees all there is to see
And cannot turn its gaze from good or ill,
So judges all by being judgement free.
For man, made father, taking child from mate,
So does she hand him his unbending fate.