by Nick Gisburne
I savour every texture of the chase
A touch, a tread, a drifting, subtle scent
I do not have to stand before her face
To know my target’s time is almost spent
The grasses, where she wandered from the street
Divided, flecked with particles of oil
Beyond, the soles of heavy, booted feet
Abrasions show a stumble in the soil
Her future, as a fugitive, is grim
The penalty is permanent and steep
Confronted, caught, her eyes are wide, but dim
Her plea a small, bewildered, mournful beep
Mechanicals. I pity them. I do
But she will be recycled, old for new
