Here is a poem that I've been struggling to find an ending for. My original flash of creativity only ran as far as describing the event, beyond that was a blank. Over the past couple of weeks I have been trying out different endings, unsure of exactly what it is I want to say. But knowing that the central image is very powerful.
The Wednesday Pig
It took the new owner some time to discern a pattern:
always a Wednesday, day before pay day,
but never more than once every four weeks
and when it did happen, it was over so fast.
That's when the recently acquired cctv came into its own,
turn the big dial, slow the picture down
and see the slaughter man,
who liked to be called the butcher's assistant,
stuffing fags inside his bloody overalls,
as his cohorts chase a terrified pig out of the shop.
Press the blue button watch it go into reverse,
caught forever in grainy black and white.
The Police were delighted, an easy result.
The plucked him off the killing floor,
noting the smile on his face as he cut a pigs throat.
The abattoir was in the process of being taken over by a multi-national.
He was told not to bother coming back,
then fined an amount he paid piece meal.
He was most upset they would not let him keep the knives.
I met him a couple of years later,
he was carrying the tools,
a Fitter's Mate at Castners,
always had a whetstone and a wicked thin knife.
First impressions that he
was not a man you could ever warm to,
were confirmed when he told you about his hi-jinks,
rhapsodising on the sounds a pig can make
as you first stick your knife in.
What do you make of it?
I feel I need to leave you with something more inspiring. Here is Bob Marley and the Wailers live in Santa Barbara. Enjoy, it's a cracking concert.