As the tumbrel turned the final corner
heading south into the crowded centre
of the square, I saw there was no mourner
paying last respects, nor no lamenter.
The crowd bayed for my blood with swelling sound
as I approached the midpoint of the throng.
Even children looked upon me, spellbound;
I smiled at them (as always, lost in song).
We stopped. They cast me underneath the blade.
I felt a reassuring smile’s embrace;
and then I heard a voice: “Be not afraid”.
Just as the blade came down, I saw the face.
No matter how or into what we’re thrown,
if we are of the light, we’re not alone.
© Alan Morrison, 2014