|
Cromwell Street
I walked past your house Fred,
but you weren't there.
Just a uniformed policeman,
to keep the curious away.
I glanced at the wrought-iron sign,
still hanging on the wall.
The one that gave the infamous address,
before it was removed.
We sat in the cafe at lunchtime,
the radio was on.
The people were silent and saddened,
as they announced another find.
I watched the News with horror,
as with dignity and respect,
the policeman carried the black shrouded box,
past the silent crowd gathered around.
I saw you in the paper Rose,
middle-aged woman,
large glasses,
looking glum.
The story was gradually emerging,
how you and your husband,
had killed another one.
Sad day for the City of Gloucester,
as the story began to emerge.
Of victims buried in the cellar,
and garden.
The House of Horrors,
finally gave up it's evil secrets.
Of your warped perverted past.
Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades
|
