His trial on the TV was
simply TV, and when they said
he would hang I didn’t listen, didn’t think,
that what they intended,
was to kill him.

Switched on the TV and watched
in uncomfortable silence and pity
for an old man in his best coat
so strong is my pity
I feel a rush of fear, to die
a most awful prospect
how would I cope, would I fight
and struggle and so to be dragged
snotted and panting to that place
bleeding and shouting, dignity
forgotten in the mess, a spectacle
for the press, to headline and to judge,
to spin in their carousel of shallow
temporary reverence.
Or would I cope and keep
a grip on the then and now
to focus on the task and face
the inevitable with cool grace
compliant with respect for them
who wish my end, but I shall not rush
I’d have my say, with steady poignant
voice, my final words declare;
that I repent and I regret; and I’ll forgive
the taunting masks with their rope
I’d whisper, ‘don’t be afraid’ get on
and be swift in your work.
This last, I hope, would endure
as an echo in their mind,
to haunt, in quiet reflection; not to die
but to live and to remind.