Passing By

Poor old Barbara,

calling from the terrace

‘Come and join me – please.’

Even the café cats turn away

and we, selfishly,

ignore the precepts of kindness

use a bland excuse

and continue walking to the car.

Fifty metres on

we start to feel guilty

but it’s too late.

Then later, something white lying in the road,

I brake,

an injured goat unable to stand.

We stop the car, at least we do that.

‘Kaput!’ says a passer-by

walking  away.

 

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